On Her Undying Majesty's Secret Service
by ImperialGirl
Summary: Ardsley Wooster, British Intelligence, has an important assignment in Paris-ingratiate himself with the heir to Baron Wulfenbach. But Ardsley's not the only one in Paris with a secret agenda. ETA: Changed the rating, as I don't think it warrants an M.
1. Chapter 1

On Her Undying Majesty's Secret Service

Characters: Ardsley Wooster/OC, Gil

Summary: Ardsley Wooster, British Intelligence, has an important assignment in Paris. Unbeknownst to him, so does someone else. Set approximately two years before the comic begins.

Disclaimers: Girl Genius, the Secret Blueprints, and its characters belong to Studio Foglio and are used without permission and with greatest respect. (And this story and all contents including original characters are theirs if they want them.) Also inspired by Ian Fleming's James Bond 007, who is the property of the estate of Ian Fleming and whoever won the film rights in the latest legal tiff. Please do not copy/repost without permission.

"Gil, it's really not that complex." Ardsley Wooster patiently tapped the open copy of Langesprachen's 'Treatise on the Rights of the Ninety Minor Houses'. "Or at least it wouldn't be, if you had actually done any studying at all. You didn't, did you?"

"Really, Wooster, you're a horrible bore sometimes, you know that?" Gilgamesh Holzfäller was concentrating far more on the delicate art of balancing his coffee cup on the tip of one boot (which he'd propped on the table) than he was on revising for his exams in modern European history. "Are all Brits as stuffy as you are?"

_Only the ones stuck tutoring idiots,_ but years of training kept the thought locked securely away. Never mind that his pupil and friend was, appearances aside, smarter than he let on and wouldn't _need _help with the mundane courses like history and literature that Sparks seemed to resent having to take. "Are all your family as lazy about geopolitics as you?" _Oh, the irony._

Gil snorted and the coffee cup wobbled precariously. "How many of the minor houses even still exist?"

"Another thing you'd know if you'd studied. We wouldn't be here if you hadn't asked for help." _And if your father hadn't wiped half of them out._ Ardsley made himself take a sip of tea and got his face under control. "And we haven't even addressed the treaties involving the trade routes through the eastern duchies to China. Or what about the last Anglo-Frankish war? Can you name all ten commanders of Wellington's mechanized divisions? I can almost promise Professor Defatigere will ask about at least one of those."

"Not about Wellington," Gil said. He grinned, and despite himself Ardsley smiled back. For all that he really was, Gil never seemed to have a genuinely nasty edge to his teasing. "Maybe your, what do you call them, public schools, like to talk about him, but I don't think the Parisians are quite as fond of him." He switched the coffee cup from one boot tip to the other, rocking the table in a decidedly perilous manner. "I guess you English need something to be proud of, and it's certainly not your food so it might as well be your navy."

_I cannot kill him unless orders change, I cannot kill him unless orders change . . . ._

"Speaks the man who's obviously never had treacle tart."

"I don't know about the treacle part, but as for tarts . . . ." Gil grinned, and reached sideways. Ardsley realized he should have seen what was coming, but who could have expected a poor serving girl to be passing at the precise moment Gil needed for his double entendre? The girl shrieked as Gil grabbed her waist and pulled, sending the tray with the steaming press pot and cups flying, fortunately in the opposite direction of their table. "Tarts, I know something about." The girl squealed, though not in a way that suggested she really objected.

There was another feminine shriek, but this far more alarmed and annoyed. Ardsley looked past Gil and his not-unwilling victim and realized where the coffee and cups had gone. A girl, another university student, by the look of her relatively-drab clothes and the books and papers on her table, was now trying to wipe most of that coffee off her notes. She was achieving very little success and looking more and more frustrated by the minute.

"Really, Gil, were you raised, or did your parents just untie you periodically?" Part of his cover meant not normally allowing any real annoyance or disapproval through, but there were limits. He _was_ supposed to be the serious older student, after all.

"You really are a complete stick, Wooster." Gil's attention was mostly on the girl on his lap. "I sometimes think you're constitutionally incapable of having fun. And you, my pretty . . . ." He chucked the waitress under the chin. "What do you know about pirates?"

Ardsley turned his back on Gil and his newest coquette. It was hardly the first time, and Gil would be utterly amiable the next time he needed help with some sparky scheme. Or the next time he failed an exam. It still rankled. "I'm perfectly capable of having fun," he muttered. "Just, restrained fun. British fun. There's nothing wrong with that."

There was something wrong with leaving a lady in distress, though. Retrieving a serviette from their table (he had a feeling they weren't going to be needing any more), he went to the girl's table. She was still dabbing at her notes, but more and more frustratedly and with little sign of making any progress. By the look of the notes she'd been studying languages–he recognized Greek, and a few lines of notes in Cyrillic letters as well. "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," he said, offering the dry serviette. "He normally means well."

She looked up, and Ardsley found himself staring into wide dark eyes of a color not dissimilar to the spilled black coffee. They were also suspiciously liquid. "It's all right, really, Monsieur," she said, and her accent wasn't immediately familiar but it was neither French nor Wulfenbach German. "I think most of it will dry out. I'm fine." There was a quaver in her voice and a trembling of her lower lip (she had quite lovely lips, he noticed in spite of himself) that belied that assertion.

"Still it was very rude of him." He looked over his shoulder, but Gil had apparently convinced the waitress to come investigate pirate hangouts with him. "I do apologize."

"You really don't have to." She didn't protest his dabbing at the spill. "Your accent–you are British, yes?"

He had been in Paris so long it took him an instant to realize she had spoken his own native language, charmingly accented to boot. "Yes, yes, I am." He smiled, and realized in the back of his mind it was sincere. "You speak English?"

"Oh, not very well," she lied prettily. She looked away quickly, then back up at him. "I don't get much chance to practice. But I like languages. English is . . . tricksy?"

"Tricky." He wasn't sure, but he had the definite impression she was flirting with him. It was a strange feeling, after flitting along in Gil's wake for so long, to have female attention directed solely at him rather than as an afterthought. He picked up a couple of the dripping note pages, gently fanning them to try and dry the coffee stains. "I suppose it's not as practical as German, or as lyrical as French, but I confess I do miss hearing it." He smiled, and her gaze dropped, a quick lowering of the lids, and then she looked back up, her Cupid's-bow mouth curved in a shy smile. When his brain kicked itself back into gear seconds later, his manners reasserted themselves, too.

"Ardsley Wooster," and he offered his hand. "I'm a tutor at the university–student, as was, I can't seem to quite finish. Maybe this term, eh?"

"There are worse things to be than an eternal student." She took his hand, and instead of shaking it he bent over it in a polite, not-quite-bow. The way her eyes sparkled when she smiled was really quite extraordinary. "Melisande La Capere. And I'm a student, too, at least I'm supposed to be. I'm afraid a university full of sparks and would-bes isn't the kindest to students only interested in reading dead languages. Please, sit down. If you have time," she added, a tinge of reluctance in her voice.

Ardsley glanced over his shoulder, but Gil obviously had no intention of putting in a reappearance tonight. He retrieved the books he'd abandoned, not that his wayward friend would be any more interested later. "All the time in the world." He sat, after surreptitiously checking the chair for more of the spill. "Coffee?"

Melisande laughed. "I prefer tea, myself. Especially after this!"

"Really?" He flagged a passing serving girl (and couldn't really blame her for the sideways look he received, given whom he'd been sitting with) and ordered a pot of black tea and a plate of biscuits for two. "I've found the French normally prefer coffee."

"Ah, but I'm not French," Melisande set, closing her notes and setting them aside. "Not on both sides. I'm from the Duchy of Moscow."

That explained the French name, but the soft accent that was decidedly not French. "You're certainly a long way from home. I would have thought, the conservatory in St. Petersburg, perhaps–"

She shrugged. "We're so insular in the Duchy, any student who expresses an interest in going abroad is usually encouraged. The Grand Duke is very like his great-grandfather-he made the court speak French and introduced table manners." She wrinkled her nose. "Of course, he also invented exploding cuff-buttons to prevent his courtiers from using their sleeves as handkerchiefs. He didn't seem to realize how much messier the results of that might be."

"I had heard the Spark ran in your ruling family." Given his ultimate objective, it wasn't reassuring to hear more about Sparks and their pathological inability to foresee consequences.

"And I have heard that it doesn't so much run in your country's, but is your country's." Her smile had changed just a tiny bit. There was more than empty flirtation there. "What other explanation can there be for a Queen called 'her Undying Majesty'?"

In spite of himself Ardsley shivered. It was more than a year since he'd set foot in Britain and slightly longer since he'd actually been in her Majesty's presence and felt the overwhelming power of her will, and the thought of defying that force still made his stomach twist. Somehow, he forced himself to chuckle. "It does make issues of succession easy to deal with."

She laughed, just enough as the joke deserved. "I'm sure it would." Their tea arrived, accompanied by a plate of small cakes, and the requisite jug of milk, bowl of sugar cubes, and, to his surprise, a little pot of blackcurrant preserves. The biscuits weren't the kind that required jam or clotted cream (his mouth watered at the thought of a real cream tea, with real English scones, and a proper supper that evening–he stopped himself. It would be a long time before he was in a position to enjoy real home cooking again. If ever.) Melisande nodded approvingly at the service, and took the pot. "Shall I?"

Ardsley nodded, wondering where she'd picked up that particular English custom. Or maybe it was normal in the Duchy, too. She poured quite elegantly, without spilling a drop, and didn't fill her own cup before setting the pot down. "Cream and sugar?"

"Please." He noted she wrinkled her nose a bit as she added the cream. "I haven't had properly-served tea in quite a while. The Parisians do many foods well, but they've never managed to master tea."

"I agree," she said, passing him the cup. "Though I suspect our definition of a proper tea probably differs a bit." She poured for herself, and to his surprise she reached for the little crock of preserves instead of the cream or sugar. She obviously saw the look on his face. "I'm not the only Russian who comes here. You see? We'd probably bicker about how to make the tea, too–I'll bet you have never used a samovar."

"Wouldn't even know how to turn one on." He sipped contentedly. Even if her own tastes were rather odd, she could certainly make a proper cup. "So, besides all the various methods of making tea, you study languages?"

"As many as I can." She set her own cup down after a delicate sip, and he noticed she kept her little finger properly curled in, not stuck out in the ostentatious gesture everyone who wasn't English seemed to think was proper. "Of course at home we speak French at the court, and Russian. My uncle always said we should learn German as well," and she switched effortlessly back to that language, "since so much of Europa speaks it."

"German, of course," he said, switching himself. "And French, Russian, naturally. But English?" It even felt good, practically tasted good, to speak English again. "That's a bit of an odd one, to speak so fluently. Unless you were planning to go to London to visit the Queen."

Melisande smiled, looking at him from beneath lowered lids. "They do say even a cat may look at a queen. Though I would be quite frightened to look at yours."

"And well you should be. You know, these biscuits are really delicious. You should try one." And just for sheer amusement, he tried that last in Italian.

She took one from the plate and delicately broke off a piece. "Yes, it's lovely." Her Italian had a very pretty lilt. "Though have you ever had mantecados? They practically melt in your mouth."

Spanish, eh? Two could play at this game. He leaned forward. "I can't say as I have." Let's see what she did with this one. "Are you familiar with the island of Wales? They have the most delicious griddle cakes there." That ought to do for her, as even to someone who'd visited Welsh was a tongue-twister.

It did sound lovely in a Russian accent, though. "I've never been. I couldn't spell the names of the travel guides." From the way her eyes lit up, the gauntlet was down. He braced himself for whatever she had next. "Now, kruschiki, if you've ever tried them . . . ."

Melisande pelted him with Polish, Hebrew, Romany, and Romanian. He matched her and countered with Greek, Hungarian, Swedish and Dutch and finally was rewarded with a blank look with his last-ditch effort. "That's all right," he said, switching back to English. "I can't expect many people have reason to learn Manx Gaelic."

She gave a disgusted little sigh. "I should have known, it sounded like Irish." And then, with a sideways smile, she rattled off something in a strange, slightly harsh language, and it was utterly incomprehensible. Her eyes were wonderfully wide and innocent. "Oh, I'm sorry. You don't speak Tartar?"

Ardsley laughed. "Fair enough. Shall we call it a draw?"

"I wish you'd call it a night," a voice behind him muttered in French, adding some rather uncomplimentary comments about students.

He jumped, and looked around. There were still a few other tables occupied, but very few and most appeared to be couples who were absorbed in something other than intense linguistic exchanges. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that he was somewhat envious, and wished there were a tactful way to change the topic to something more pleasant. Gil, he thought bitterly, would certainly have some charming, witty remark, something flattering about her hair or her eyes or for all he knew the delicate way she filed her nails, whatever it was always seemed to work–

And then Ardsley reminded himself she wasn't sitting here talking languages with Gil, and while he was no deft hand with the ladies, he was trained in reading expressions and she was gazing across the table at him as if there were nowhere else in Paris she wanted to be. He didn't think the tea and biscuits were that good. "I think they're getting impatient with us," he said, leaning in conspiratorially.

"That's all right. The tea's getting cold," she whispered. "And anyway, I do have a lecture tomorrow, and I suppose I've taken up too much of your evening as it is."

"On the contrary. I can't remember when I've enjoyed practicing my languages so much." He saw her reaching for her purse, and waved her off. "Please. My friend dumped coffee on your notes. It's the least I can do."

"Yes, your friend . . . ." She picked at the crumbled remains of a biscuit. "Please, I may offend without meaning, but . . . how exactly did someone like you come to have a friend like, well–"

"Gil?" On the face of it, it was certainly hard to explain. At least, not without explaining far more than he could or wanted to. "He's . . . well, he's really not so bad, once you get to know him. I mean, yes, he is incredibly lazy, and he does spend more on drinking and opium than on his books, and he pays a distressing amount of attention to loose women and pirates. He takes advantage, always leaves you with the reckoning, steals the girl you're trying to impress right out from under your nose, has never studied for his tutoring sessions but passes his exams anyway . . . ."

Melisande was laughing openly. "Really, he sounds a prince!"

Ardsley found himself laughing, too, more honestly than he had in ages. "No, really. Sometimes he just . . . well, I don't tutor for fun. A few months ago I wasn't going to be able to pay my rent, or at least I thought I wasn't. I managed to scrape together the money by the end of the month–skipping meals, mostly–and when I went to pay I found out my friend, the 'one with the scraggly hair who doesn't remember to shave', had paid up. I tried to thank him, but he denied having any idea what I was talking about." He frowned. "Though somehow I ended up spending a lot of that money on drinks that night. Anyway, Gil has been known to do nice things."

"Like saving your rooms for you."

"That," he said, "and talking some pirates out of press-ganging me."

Her eyebrows arched halfway to her hairline. "Pirates?"

"Pirates." That had been embarrassing for a multitude of reasons. He probably could have dealt with the crew, at least with their leader, a very lovely but utterly insane East Indian woman with a skull bindi, who was just clever enough to function and just crazy enough to lose fights she should win. But that would mean blowing his cover into tiny little pieces. Pretending to be terrified was one of the more abasing things he'd had to do yet. Not to mention where he'd been at the time–he wasn't unfamiliar with opium and hashish (training in recognizing narcotics was vital when there were plenty of people who might want to drug you) but that didn't mean he wanted to wander into an opium den unprepared. From that point on he'd learned to ask where exactly they were going when Gil suggested ditching studying for a night on the town. "It was . . . somewhat embarrassing."

"That sounds like the famous British understatement I've heard about." Melisande checked a delicate gold watch she was wearing on a chain around her neck. "_Bozhemoi_. It's later than I thought." She gathered up her books, and looked at him from beneath lowered eyes. "I wonder, it's late and getting dark. I don't live far, but if you wouldn't mind–"

"I would be honored to escort you to your door." Ardsley picked up his own books, and offered her his free arm. "My lady?"

"Why, thank you, sir." She linked her arm through his, and he couldn't swear to it, but he thought she pressed just a little closer than was strictly necessary. As they walked down the narrow streets in the light of the gas lamps, he was increasingly sure of it. There was a pleasant warmth, every other step a brush here or a press of the hip there that didn't quite have to happen but did, and he forced himself to pay attention to the shadowy doorways, the Master of Paris's evening patrols, who gave him just as careful a look in return, the other people hurrying home in the deepening gloom, everything except the deliciously comfortable feeling of Melisande, so close beside him.

"So, where is it you live?' he finally asked, hoping the sound of his voice would distract him from the other, highly unprofessional thoughts that were starting to tiptoe their way out of his subconscious.

"Rue des Vinsons," she replied, "there's a tea room there that's rather a home away from home for those of us from the Duchy. You should stop in," and she was looking up at him again with that sideways smile, "and I'll show you how tea's supposed to be served."

"Jam goes on a scone with clotted cream, not in your teacup!" Still, how much could it really hurt to try.

"_Clotted _cream?" She grimaced. "That sounds awful!"

"Not clotted like gone off," he laughed, "clotted like . . . well, it's like whipped cream, in a way. It's marvelous on a fresh-baked scone. You should try it."

"Really." She appeared to consider that. "What's a scone?"

"Oh, now you're just teasing!"

"You only just noticed?" She quirked an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're clever enough to be tutoring anyone?"

"You certainly seem to think you're clever," he retorted. "Especially for someone who supposedly finds English 'tricksy'."

She had the good grace to blush. "I like English. Maybe I practice it a bit more. Still, speaking is different than reading. Thinking it, now . . . I'm always a bit behind, translating in my head."

"Well." He stopped at the sign for Rue des Vinsons and she turned to look up at him. "Any time you would like to practice your English, I'd be happy to oblige. Provided, of course, you don't argue about the milk in the tea."

"If you insist on it," and she wrinkled her nose again. "As I said, I have lecture tomorrow . . . ." He braced himself for the excuses, the week's worth of appointments . . . . "But the day after, I'm entirely free. Perhaps we could buy lunch at the market and have a picnic in the Bois de Bolougne?"

Ardsley did some quick mental calculations. Ostensibly, he was supposed to be at the library the day after tomorrow, doing one of the innumerable little jobs he did to maintain his cover as a poor orphan student whose cheapskate guardian begrudged him every penny. Part of his cover was to convince Gil that he needed to work for a living and that he was ready for something, anything, more lucrative than perpetual student-hood. Missing a day might put that particular job in jeopardy. Which, in turn, might go a long way towards convincing Gil he was in fact desperate for work. Given Gil's proclivities, if he mentioned he'd lost said job because he was busy courting a pretty girl, it might speed things along quite nicely. And, best of all, that meant this was work, not a self-indulgent distraction from his primary mission.

"Shall we meet at the boulangerie on Rue de Relâchement? Say, twelve o'clock?"

Her smile lit up the street, or maybe he just thought it did since it was ages, or felt like ages, since any girl had directed a smile like that at him. "Eleven-thirty. We'll still miss the best bread but maybe there'll be something left."

"Eleven-thirty then. And I'll bring the wine." Wine at a midday meal was a bit decadent even by English standards, but de rigeur in France.

"That will certainly solve any arguments about tea," Melisande laughed. "And I will bring dessert."

The fact that his mind immediately leapt to some very ungentlemanly ideas about what sort of dessert he'd prefer really should have been a hint there'd be no way to explain this as a sensible, professional decision. He told himself he'd justify it all in the report later. "Sounds perfect."

They were in front of a narrow, old stone building that looked almost like any other house on the street, except for the wooden sign above the door that read "The Silver Samovar" in French and Cyrillic. The windows were darkened from lamp smoke but he could still see the glow of lights within. "Well." Melisande looked up at the sign, a wry twist to her lips. "It's not much, but it's home for now."

"I know the feeling." Suddenly he found himself reluctant to leave. He didn't want to go in, either–tea arguments aside, he'd be less than a gentleman if he asked. Just standing here and speaking some sort of common language would be perfectly nice, though, especially if she kept her arm through his while they did. "Well. This is good night, I suppose."

"Yes, I suppose. Or we could keep standing here and eventually it would be good morning." She turned to face him, her hand still resting on his arm as if she didn't want to part, either. "I'd probably be very tired for my lecture."

"And we'd certainly get a lot of strange looks, standing here." He had a report to file, Gil to locate and keep under observation just to make sure his mark didn't end up dead in an opium den (though he was more careful than he appeared to be), and at some, blissful point, he might even get a few hours' sleep. In a bed that was going to seem rather cold and lonely now–_no, stop that this instant, you barely know Melisande, you just haven't had any female attention for what seems like eternity, you are not going to start having thoroughly improper and ungentlemanly fantasies about her an hour after you met. _

_At least wait until after lunch Thursday. _

"So we're going for the standing option, then?" She had that not-quite-serious gleam in her eye again. "I wish I'd worn better shoes for it."

He was still embarrassed. "Sorry, I just . . . It's been a long time since I've enjoyed myself quite so much. It's been a true pleasure, Mademoiselle."

"Talking to me?" It might have been the lamplight, but he was fairly certain her cheeks flushed. "Your life must be very dull, Mister Wooster."

"Ardsley."

"Ardsley," she echoed. She was definitely blushing, and once again she was looking at him from beneath lowered lashes. "In that case, it's Melisande."

A handshake didn't seem appropriate, a bow too formal and distant, and all the other things he might have wanted to do far too forward. So he simply lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the back. "Good night, Melisande."

"Good night. I'll see you day after tomorrow, then?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world." Reluctantly, he released her hand. "Good night."

"You said that part already." She stepped backwards, not turning away. "Good night, Ardsley."

"Now who's repeating herself?" He backed away as well, for once not because he was expecting a knife when he turned around. She moved back into the doorway, reaching for the handle without looking, laughing at him or herself or both.

He made himself turn around, replaying the sound of his name in her voice. He didn't recall it ever sounding so pleasant. _Don't look back. If you look back, and she's watching, she'll think you're a besotted fool. If you look back and she's not watching, it'll crush you. _

_But if she's watching, and you don't look back . . . ._

Ardsley looked back. For an instant, he thought she had gone inside, but there was a spill of light from the open door, and then he saw her, peeking around it, a mischievous look in her eyes. She saw him turn, and he threw her a jaunty salute. He could hear her laughing even as she closed the door.

Turning around, he picked up his pace. He suspected he knew which den of iniquity Gil had dragged his latest paramour to, and there was probably still time to make sure everyone got home in one piece. If he hurried, he could shadow Gil, and the poor serving girl if necessary, and still be home in time to write a quick report and maybe get some sleep before having to get up and do it all over again. At least there was Melisande to look forward to. He frowned; that should probably not go in the report. His personal life, provided he maintained his cover, was at his own discretion, and this was, after all, somewhat useful. Gil had been accusing him of being particularly lifeless and pedantic, and he couldn't risk that falling apart because Gil got bored with him. The agency didn't need to know details, and if he managed to have a little fun for himself, well, he'd earned it, hadn't he?

That settled in his mind, he turned off Rue des Vinsons and started for one of the less-respectable districts of Paris. If he hurried, and actually managed a proper, restful night, he found himself hoping for dreams of laughing dark eyes, strange tastes in tea, and a warm, softly curved body pressed 'accidentally' against him as they walked together.

Melisande had to stop and compose herself as she closed the door to the street. Her pulse was racing, and her body was shaking with the after-effects of that peculiar fear and excitement that always came after the danger was over. She resisted the urge to look one more time–surely he was at the corner, turned it and gone. And in any case, they'd meet again in less than two days, and not by accident this time.

The Silver Samovar was done up in high Moscow style, which meant French furnishings that were ten or so years out of date and lots of heavy curtains, with gilding anywhere that seemed feasible. It felt very much like home, complete with the rowdy minor sons of minor nobility who were most assuredly not drinking tea in those glasses. Deftly, she flitted between the tables, dodging well-aimed come-ons and less-well-aimed hands, scanning for the few faces she knew were not only there for tea and camaraderie. Vanya Sergeivich was hunched at a table near the tiled fireplace, his lank dark hair flopping in his eyes as usual as he scribbled something in a notebook. From the gleam in his eyes, if he wasn't in the madness place he was close enough to it she knew better than to interrupt.

"Productive night, Melichka?"

The voice was silk-smooth and condescending as always, and Melisande gritted her teeth before turning. "Very, Ekatarina Olegevna," she said. "Have you seen Anya Leonova? I should tell her about it."

Katia smiled her usual frosty smile. "In the back, with the kettle on, if you're not awash in English tea already." The glint in her Nordic-blue eyes belied what she meant.

"You have a positive gift for making the littlest thing sound obscene," Melisande retorted. "Really, if you weren't so obvious you might have had a chance at this yourself, but Uncle was right, you wouldn't be at all appealing."

Katia's nose twitched. "He likes little French mice, then? Lucky for you."

"You have no idea how lucky, Katia, and you never will. Excuse me." That had all been a mistake. Katia, with her snow-maiden looks and arrogant confidence in her ability to seduce any man (an ability which, Melisande grudgingly admitted, she'd demonstrated often enough Melisande had paid attention to advice her blonde cousin offered) was also an expert at goading people, and she had delighted in tormenting Melisande since she'd arrived. Baiting her was a recipe for trouble. And yet, she was still giddy enough she didn't really care.

Anya Leonova was in the back in her little alcove, curtained and with a private tea-table, just where she usually was of an evening. The tiled stove in the corner was glowing hot, filling the nook with a cheery warmth. Nearby, a proper brass samovar sat ready and waiting to produce proper Russian tea. At the table, in a high-backed chair far more comfortable than any of the rest in the tea room, there was a round little woman with ash-blonde hair in an old-fashioned coiled braid. While she was now small, pleasantly plump, and kindly in the way genuinely sweet elderly ladies could be, it was possible, in a certain kind of light and if you squinted just a bit, to see that Anastasia Leonova Dragomirov had once been a beauty who'd put Katia and Melisande combined to shame. "Good evening, Baba Anya," Melisande said, planting a quick kiss on the rosy cheek before taking a seat in the much smaller chair opposite. She was not, of course, Melisande's grandmother, but her godmother.

"Good evening, Melisande." Baba Anya took a sip, her fingers gracefully lifting the _podstanniki_ with its filigree delicate as any china cup. "Well. You've spoken to him."

The butterflies that had taken up permanent residence somewhere in the pit of her stomach roughly the same time the coffee pot had come flying at her began beating at triple speed. "Spoken? Oh, yes. French, German, Russian, English . . . he says he likes my English."

"It is quite good," and Baba Anya spoke it herself, with a much more fluent accent than Melisande could manage even when she wasn't trying to sound charmingly provincial. "But not too good?"

"Oh, no. He's more than happy to help me." She set her books aside. Part of her had ached to ask if he was as sick of spending time in classrooms as she was at her age, but that would certainly be giving the game away. "I'm meeting him again day after tomorrow."

"More studying?" Baba Anya poured her a glass of tea.

"A picnic in the Bois de Bolougne." The butterflies had apparently learned the can-can in addition to fluttering. She didn't dare pick up the tea or Baba Anya would notice her trembling. "I'm to bring the dessert."

"Hm." Baba Anya stirred her tea thoughtfully. "But not too sweet, I think. You'll make him suspicious."

"Oh, not that," Melisande assured her. "Not yet, anyway." She smiled in spite herself. She could still feel where he had kissed her hand, how his fingers had pressed hers, the softness of his lips . . . she had high hopes this was going to be much more pleasant than she'd expected. "Though if he offers–"

"After two days? You're not that kind of girl," Baba Anya said sharply. "Not for this one, at least. These English agents have two ways of treating a woman. We are after the second. Not the first."

"I just find it hard to believe he is so desperate for female attention." She sighed. "He's a perfect gentleman. And I should thank Uncle Oleg. Ardsley is . . . much better looking than I'd hoped."

"Yes, that is always a benefit," Baba Anya said. "But do not going forgetting what the object is." She reached across the table and patted Melisande's hand. "I know what it is like to be young and on my first seduce and co-opt mission. Especially when the target is a charming young British agent." She smiled, almost wistfully. "They do train them young there. And well. I almost envy you, my dear." She fingered the carved black brooch she always wore at her collar.

"I hope I don't disappoint you." The mention of training was a bit unsettling. Of course, she'd been trained as well, in the best methods of luring and keeping a man, and keeping him satisfied to boot. The point of the training had not been her own satisfaction (at least beyond learning to feign it if necessary), and in fact part of the allure they planned meant the training had gone only so far and no farther. As Uncle Oleg had said when presenting her with her mission instructions, they wanted an unopened package, not a used gift. The butterflies, plus their compatriots lower than her stomach that had flared up when she accidentally-on-purpose pressed against his side, had been an unsettling surprise. But not unwelcome.

Baba Anya smiled. "I'm sure you'll be a credit to us all. Now, you should write up your report and then get some rest. It seems you will be having a busy week. Unless you'd care for more tea."

"No, thank you. I think I'm half-drowned in tea." She grimaced. "And nothing else, no matter what Ekaterina Olegevna tells you."

Baba Anya arched her brows. "Katia is less than discrete. There's a reason she was not selected for this task."

"She would have sent him running," Melisande said, with enough heat and certainty she surprised herself. "Katia's talented, but she's not subtle. And I don't think Ardsley would appreciate her brand of clever."

"Which is why Oleg Feyodorovich chose you, and not her." Baba Anya smiled. "Now, just remember, Melichka dear, reel this one in slowly."

"He took the bait, and I have the hook set," she said, rising from the table. "The reeling in just may be my favorite part."

To his utter embarrassment, Ardsley found himself completely distracted all of Wednesday, to the point Gil was correcting _him_ during what should have been a tutoring session (making up for the one cut short the night before), and he almost didn't notice when Gil started rattling off thoroughly absurd remarks.

"Did I mention I ran into the Storm King? We're having tea and biscuits and going dress shopping next week. And I'm leaving university to join a traveling circus as a cheese juggler."

"Hm." Ardsley stared at the notes open in front him without seeing a word. What _would_ be appropriate food for a picnic lunch? Attire wasn't really a question-his choices were limited to his poor-student cover. What if it rained? What if Melisande changed her mind? "Uh . . . yes, that's right."

Gil snorted. "While we're on the subject, I'm actually lying. I'm not running off to the circus, just popping over for the wedding of Trelawney Thorpe, Spark of the Realm, to the Iron Sheik. I was thinking of getting them a tea cozy." There was another pause. "Oh, and have I mentioned I'm the long-lost heir of Baron Wulfenbach?"

"What?" Ardsley's head snapped up. Had Gil just admitted the whole game? Then he saw the look on Gil's face–it wasn't a full-on evil gleam of a madboy, but definitely its kissing cousin. "Oh, come off it!"

"Just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Do you want to pass _your _exams and finally finish? Aw, forget European history, Ardsley. What's going on?" Gil leaned forward, and every instinct Ardsley had told him the curiosity was sincere. For starters, suddenly it was first names. "You're never this out of touch. Come on, what's up?"

Drawing a long breath, looking away with feigned reluctance, Ardsley bought himself time. How much? He should have spent less time last night pointing a very woozy cafe-girl in the right direction home from the Moulin (Gil didn't usually mean to forget his ladies, it was more that something interesting always caught his attention) and more time figuring out how to spin this to Gil. Sincerity. That was probably best. "There's this girl."

"Oh-ho!" Gil was just too triumphant. "So, the stick in the mud is only human after all. Who is she? A little librarian who batted her eyes at you over the card catalog? No–a world-weary dancer at la Moulin who finds your earnest-scholar act refreshing."

"Neither," Ardsley said, surprising himself with how irritable he sounded. "She's a linguistics student at the university. When you were playing pirate in the café last night you dumped a full coffee service on her notes."

"Did I?" Gil looked genuinely blank. "I suppose I could have. Sorry, old chap, though I suppose I did you a favor."

"Oddly enough, you did." He sighed, putting just the faint note of despair into the sound. His acting teacher would be so proud. "I stopped to help her clean up your mess, and ended up talking for an hour."

"Just talking? You're a terribly slow worker." Gil shook his head sadly.

"She's not that kind of girl," Ardsley snapped. "Anyway, I'm meeting her tomorrow and I'm just a little worried. What if something goes wrong and I ruin everything?"

"Have no fear, my friend," Gil said, with a grin that Ardsley was sure he meant to be reassuring. "You have come to the right advisor."

Ardsely had the terrible suspicion that if he followed most of the advice he was about to receive, the only thing he'd succeed in doing was possibly scarring Melisande for life. Still, he supposed this was more bonding with Gil. "We didn't have any problem talking last night. Her English is actually quite good, and her accent's adorable." He blinked. "I didn't actually intend to say that last part out loud."

"Adorable? We're going to have to work on your priorities." Gil shook his head sadly. "So, you met this charming little French girl–"

"Muscovite," Ardsley corrected. "Though I think she said she was half-French."

"Russian, eh?" Gil raised his eyebrows suggestively. "I hear it's freezing there. You know what they say, cold hands, warm–"

"Gil!" Bonding or not, this had to be a bad idea. "She's not one of your chorus girls or serving wenches. I don't want her to think I'm only out to get a hand up her skirt."

Gil sighed. "For a start, the hand is thinking small. Second, if she's such a nice girl, you have to try the charm offensive if you do want to get up her skirt."

"All right, Herr Expert," Ardsley said, "so how does one be charming without being offensive?"

"Very funny." Gil kicked back, lounging even more lazily on the metal café chair than he had been. Funny how he always wanted to meet at places that served either coffee or alcohol. "So, what did you talk about so far?"

"Well, mostly, we compared languages." Ardsley smiled to himself, remembering how quickly they'd tripped off her tongue, at least up until he'd pulled Manx on her. He could always teach her some . . . . "She must speak at least twenty. Enough to make casual conversation, at least. Though she's very strange about how she takes her tea."

"Her _tea_?" Gil groaned. "You finally meet a girl who notices you're alive and you're worried about how she takes her tea? Forget how half your country wound up under water, it's amazing there are any of you left. All right, first things first–if you're going to babble at her in one of your awful accents, at least say something nice."

"Such as?"

"For a start, you can tell your lovely paramour, what's-her-name, something nice about herself. Like . . . tell her she has beautiful eyes. Does she? What color are they?"

Ardsley considered that for a moment. He certainly remembered Melisande's eyes. "Brown." Gil gave him the stinkeye, so he tried harder. "Chocolate brown. Or maybe more coffee brown. Very dark, but there are these little lighter flecks that you can sort of see in the lamplight. Maybe everyone has that, I never noticed, though. And she has the longest lashes I've ever seen. She has this way of looking up at me through them . . . ." He sighed, and realized abruptly he hadn't had to think very much about any of that.

"Good, now we're getting somewhere!" Gil nodded approvingly. "How about her hair?"

"Also brown . . . she was wearing it up in braids, like Russian girls do. It's probably long . . . ." He sighed again, but it wasn't an unhappy feeling.

"Oh-ho, there's your opening." Gil leaned forward conspiratorially. "If she wears it up again, your goal is to get her to take it down."

"So come across as if I have a hair fetish?" Maybe she'd wear it down. Or just tied back, with a simple ribbon–blue, blue would look nice, or a pretty green. It would set off the highlights nicely in the sun, assuming it was sunny, of course, and perhaps he could untie it and run his fingers through the waves the braids would certainly leave–

Ardsley stopped himself. Maybe he did have a hair fetish.

"No, convince the uptight girl who's holding something back to let her hair down, because shortly after she lets her hair hang down, she may very well start thinking about letting her skirt hike up."

"I told you," Ardsley said, "she's not that sort. She's a lady." No matter what sort of ungentlemanly thoughts he might be thinking about her himself, and it was really annoying to think that Gil might have any sort of thoughts along those lines . . .

Gil rolled his eyes. "Well, that's no fun."

"Some of us like to go for quality over quantity."

"And I say, why can't you have both?" He kicked back in his seat. "Look, Ardsley, do you want to just sit around chatting about tea and crumpets, or do you actually want to get somewhere with this–what's her name?"

Ardsley sighed. "Melisande."

"Hm. Sounds more French than Russian. Sure she's not having you on?"

"She did say she was half-Russian." Though given her surname, he assumed the Russian was her mother. "In any case, her name is Melisande."

"Hm, pretty. Well, do you actually intend to get anywhere with Melisande?" Gil continued. "Or are you happy to stick to picnics in the Bois and nattering about tea?"

How could he do anything besides safe, boring, perfectly proper picnics? What on Earth could he possibly offer? He couldn't be honest with her, ever, so anything more than distant, polite friendship would be cruel. Not to mention, for all his bravado, Gil would not separate a friend from a girl he cared for–and going off with Gil, in whatever capacity, was the heart of his mission. He could always, he supposed, simply admit he wanted nothing besides a quick fling and take Gil's advice–but that could backfire as well, as "womanizing idiot" was not part of the persona he'd created, calculated specifically to garner Gil's sympathy. Casually using a girl for sheer amusement did not fit with the persona, and it didn't fit with his real personality, either, at least as much of that as he was allowed to remember. Seduction and cooption was an entirely valid operational tactic, and in fact he'd been somewhat relieved to find Gil's interests didn't run in that direction as it would have been uncomfortable, if a little easier, to go that route. Entertaining himself with an innocent bystander, one whom he had to admit under other circumstances seemed to have potential to be more than a passing fancy, might do for some agents, but not for him.

But Gil couldn't know all that.

"Of course I'd like more than a picnic," he said. "But . . . well, it's easy for you. You know what to say, and you're never short on cash I've ever noticed. I'm poor, and the only thing I've ever been good at is studying and making a very nice cup of tea. Well, and doing three jobs at once while trying to stay in school. Which might be down to two after tomorrow, as I kind of told her I'd meet her when I'm supposed to be at the library."

"Skivving off work to meet a girl? You?" Gil looked sincerely impressed. "I am in shock. She must be something, after all. So. Compliments. And remember, the right compliment at the right moment, and your fingers get to follow your eyes." Once again, without any bidding, Ardsley had the image of Melisande's long, silky tresses and twining his fingers in them. He didn't realize how long he'd been doing it until he heard Gil snort, sounding as if he were going to choke to death if he didn't get a good guffaw out. "You are a goner already, aren't you? Good God . . . ."

"I cannot wait until you meet a girl you're interested in for longer than five minutes," he grumbled. "I am going to laugh so hard . . . ." Then again, perhaps he ought to hope Gil never ran into the kind of woman it would take to enthrall a Wulfenbach Spark. She'd probably make the Mongfish sisters look like the Three Graces.

"Keep waiting." Gil had a gleam in his eye that looked just this side of sparky. "Now, if you're going to insist on being a gentleman, the place to start will have to be kissing her hand."

"Already done that." And felt how her whole arm, presumably her whole body, trembled when he did.

"I'm impressed. Well, next time, try holding it a moment too long. Maybe, if the lady seems to be enjoying it, just a bit of teeth. Unless you think that's a little too rough–then try the old reverse maneuver–turn her hand over and kiss her palm. Turns their knees to water, that one."

Ardsley was glad that raised eyebrows were an appropriate response for multiple reasons. Gil sounded eerily like his instructors in the more delicate arts of espionage, which meant either Gil really did know what he was talking about, or his own training was less adequate than he'd thought. Either way, listening couldn't hurt. "So once she's weak in the knees, then what?"

Gil's grin had a definite madboy edge now. And the strange thing was, Ardsely found the expression oddly reassuring. Plus there was the weirdly confident sense that he should be taking notes.

By eleven-thirty all boulangerie in Paris were more or less deserted, the best of the breads and rolls having been snatched up in the early-morning hours, and the shop in the Rue de Relâchement was no different. Melisande waited, ignoring the not-so-subtle impatient looks and muttering in heavily-accented dialect about loitering students with too much free time. The store was still stocked with baskets of baguettes and rolls and crusty peasant loaves, though she noticed there wasn't a single good black loaf to be found. Which was a shame. Not that she'd be able to find any decent mushroom caviar or herring to put on it, but it would have made for a nice, homey touch.

As, she hoped, would the Mazarine biscuits in the basket she carried over one arm. The little pastries, with their apricot and almond filling, had taken her most of the previous evening to make. The English biscuits were deliciously crumbly and sweet and it had taken three tries before she hadn't scorched the bottoms. Of course, she could, as Baba Anya had gently suggested, simply let one of the Silver Samovar's cooks make them. But that would somehow have seemed like cheating.

She heard the door to the shop open. _Don't look. Don't seem too eager. _There was a wooden rack holding baskets of bread between her and the door, but she fancied the footsteps were familiar. Feeling a thoroughly unprofessional sense of giddiness, she peeked around the loaves. Ardsley, in the same slightly threadbare vest and coat he'd been wearing two evenings ago, was standing just inside the door, a bottle of wine in a bottle basket dangling in one hand as he looked around the shop, obviously searching for something.

Her.

She couldn't help the grin.

Stepping out where he could see her, she tried not to look too excited. "Ardsley?"

Strange, how her insides felt gooey and warm as he turned and smiled at her. Warm, with just the faintest twinge of . . . guilt. Yes, guilt. Guilt and an odd sadness, knowing that hopeful look on his face would vanish if he knew who she really was. How unpleasant that thought was.

That could be a problem.

"Mademoi–Melisande." He smiled, so open and happy the guilt was absolutely gnawing at her. "I was afraid you'd have thought better of things and weren't going to come."

"Well, as you can see, I took precautions against any flying coffee services." The walking suit she'd chosen looked just fine enough to be the nicest thing a student might have in her closet. The skirt and jacket were dark brown, trimmed with gold and red embroidered ribbon (cheaper than real embroidery would have been, not as cheap as obvious homespun.) The cream-colored blouse she'd picked to go with it fit just tightly enough that, if she unbuttoned the jacket, he might be able to see the outline of her corset under the fabric. The neck, though, was primly high and she'd done the buttons up to the top. Let him wonder a bit. "The stains will blend right in."

"Ah, you should have worn burgundy, then." He lifted the wine basket, and she heard glasses clinking against the dark bottle. "But you look lovely in brown, too. It matches your hair." He blinked. "That didn't sound as complimentary out loud as I thought it would."

"It was very complimentary." As her common brown hair and eyes had always seemed distressingly plain beside Katia's snow-maiden blonde and blue, or Baba Anya's blonde and emerald green, that he seemed to like it was cause for another warm feeling and fluttering of the butterflies. "I brought dessert, as I said. I hope you like Mazarin biscuits. I baked them myself and I'm afraid I might have browned them a bit much."

"I'm sure they'll be lovely. Now, what shall we have for the rest of lunch?"

Lunch, they decided, would be a crusty boule of peasant bread, and from the markets closer to the Bois, they bought sharp, crumbly cheese, apples, and a little sausage, one without garlic. Normally, Melisande would have preferred something more seasoned, but the implications were promising. As they shopped, they chatted in English, partially on her part to discourage eavesdroppers, partially because it seemed to make Ardsley relax. There were still moments when she saw that flicker in his eyes, a quick shading, and she knew why. That was the professional, the real personality that was locked away behind the cover. She knew exactly how he felt. Hopefully he sensed that, somehow, she understood. At some point, the object was to tell him.

But he had to be wrapped around her little finger first.

"I confess, I've been looking forward to today." Ardsley sounded just faintly bashful. They had come to one of the many entrances to the Bois, and she noted approvingly he chose one of the side paths through the trees, not the wider lanes that were always crowded. Of course, Paris being Paris, so were many of the more secluded groves and thickets. While she was determined to follow Anya Leonova's instructions, that was still a disappointment.

"So have I. I might as well have skipped lecture yesterday after all," which she had been tempted to do, but were he at all suspicious he would have someone from the British embassy checking up. "I can't honestly remember what it was about. Le professeur was talking, but my mind . . . someplace else." French, thanks to her father, she at least could grasp the articles. Russian was so much simpler without them. English . . . .

"I know _exactly_ how you feel," and unless that fervent tone was an excellent act, he did.

She was beginning to think they would have to resort to eating along the riverbank, and besides a lack of privacy, the smell of the Seine was not especially appetizing. At last, they found a little pine copse that somehow was still unoccupied. Of course, it was also covered in pine needles and lacking in any seats, and Melisande realized she had neglected to pack a blanket. Ardsley, however, had a solution.

"I should have thought about sitting on the ground," he said, stripping off his somewhat tattered greatcoat and spreading it, lining up, on the pine needles. "Next time I'll plan better. But to be honest, I was so nervous I'm surprised I remembered where we were supposed to meet."

"Nervous?" She laid out the napkin she'd had the foresight to pack with the biscuits, and set out the bread, cheese, sausage and fruit. "I make you nervous?"

He paused, corkscrew in hand. "Bloody terrified, to be honest. All I've done the last two days is worry that you wouldn't show, and now I'm worried I'll say something wrong and completely offend you."

Melisande couldn't help laughing. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, there's no danger of that so far. I've been more worried that you'll think my biscuits are terrible and I'm utterly useless."

"I'm sure your biscuits are lovely!" He paused. "I've said something terrible without meaning too again, haven't I?"

"What, complimenting my biscuits? If that's all it takes to embarrass you, thank goodness I didn't bake buns." She nearly choked trying not to laugh at his expression until he saw the gleam in her eye.

"If you're that bad now, I'm not sure you should have any of this," Ardsley said, holding up the bottle. "Then again, maybe I should have brought something stronger."

"Oh?" She did her best to look prim. "Do you have some nefarious intentions that would be aided by my incapacitation?"

His jaw dropped. "I thought you said English was 'tricksy.'"

She smiled, much more wickedly than she'd intended. "I've been practicing."

"I can see I'm going to have to stay on my toes with you." He wrested the cork free, and she noted that it took less effort than his demeanor suggested. From what she'd gleaned, his cover involved being taken for a typical soft student, the sort of academic at home in a library or lab and an amateur adventurer at best. The muscles in his arm suggested otherwise. "Now, how about slicing the bread?"

The pine needles gave the little grove a pleasant, earthy scent, one that reminded Melisande of the forests where her Uncle Oleg had his summer dacha. She wondered if there were mushrooms and berries growing in the Bois–but then, the Master of Paris had designed the place, so if there were, they probably weren't wild to begin with. Ardsley sat opposite, with the food and wine between them. Melisande broke a piece of the loaf off and handed a chunk to him. "It tastes better if you tear it."

"Really?" He traded her the bread for a glass (more an old jam jar) of wine. "I hope that's not true for cheese. That could be messy."

"Not where I come from, but you English are strange." The food, however, was delicious, especially in the fresh air. Eating and making a significant dent in the bottle of wine kept their conversation light, which gave her a chance to simply observe him. One could tell a great deal about a person by how he sat, held a knife, the way he looked at you when you spoke. As she'd already gathered, he was always just a hair more alert than he appeared to be, and his manners were impeccable. When she was talking, he watched her with unfeigned interest, his blue eyes focused intently on her, his features relaxed, the smile unforced.

And she had the increasingly uncanny feeling he was doing exactly the same thing she was. When she was talking, and only glancing up at him intermittently, she would catch an analytic gleam in his eyes, could almost see the gears turning as he noted how she spoke, the turn of her wrist with the knife (she was careful to keep it a delicate, soft-fingered hold, not a competent grip, even though one flick and she could have buried it to the hilt in the trunk of the pine) and she felt an additional flush of excitement at the thought. Was there the slightest giveaway in her voice, her movements? How good was he? How good did she have to be that he wouldn't rumble her? Was he so good he'd already made her and was stringing her along?

The butterflies in her stomach had apparently taken up permanent residence, and somehow she was enjoying the sensation.

"You know," Ardsley said, examining one of Mazarine biscuits critically, "it's been a while since I've tried one of these. Not sure if that's quite how they're supposed to look. Hmm . . . ." And he took a tentative nibble.

His eyes widened, and he clutched dramatically at his throat, gasping so convincingly Melisande was quite sure she'd managed to poison her target for once completely by accident. Then he cocked his head thoughtfully. "Maybe a bit less jam next time."

"Oh, you–" Her English failed her, and she opted for one of the unsliced apples, aiming a solid toss at his head. He snatched it out of the air with reflexes that really didn't suit a scholar any better than her throw did and took a bite. She looked for something else to throw and, giving up, sat back on her heels. "You're terrible!"

"Really? That should make me more interesting, then." He took another bite, then held out the apple to her. "My aunt would probably be thrilled to hear you say that. I think she's always been disappointed I wasn't a madboy."

"Your aunt?" Hesitating only a second, she took the apple and bit it, just barely touching the edge of where he had done the same.

"My guardian," and she saw those shutters close behind Ardsley's eyes again.

_Yes, your aunt. Your mother's sister. The reason they recruited you practically from birth, like me._ "She has the Spark?"

"Yes," he said, rather glumly, "she has the Spark. And as I'm her nearest relative, and an only child, I think I've been something of a disappointment, all things considered."

"Your parents didn't?" That they had very little information on–names, and the fact the elder Woosters were dead (as seemed to be the case with many of British Intelligence's agents–they seemed to prefer recruiting orphans), and of course the identity of his maternal aunt. "Have the Spark, I mean?" He shook his head 'no'. " I'm sure they weren't disappointed in you."

"I'm afraid they didn't live long enough to make up their minds on that point," he said, with a trace of bitter humor. "But I hope they would have been proud of me. I may not have the Spark myself, but I'm not a half-bad lab assistant, if I do say so myself. Better than your average minion, anyway."

"Lab assistant? When you're so well-read?" True, he attended Oxford's College of Non-Intuitive Mechanics (the ever-polite British had even found a nice way to refer to the non-gifted) and like everyone else, even spies, who attended the university in Paris, he had to be a top scholar (her own scores in analytic linguistics at the Conservatory in St. Petersburg had been the deciding factor in her admission, that and her father being an old friend of the Master of Paris). Their research indicated his studies, rather like her own, had been somewhat curtailed in favor of things like escape arts, lockpicking, disguises, explosives, disarming clanks, and all the other sorts of things one had to know.

"Perhaps in the Duchy there are opportunities for the gifted in liberal arts, but England already has more than her fair share of historians, schoolteachers, and poets writing odes on the ripples of the waves through the glass, unless they're from the northern islands and like to ramble on about daffodils." Ardsley gave her a droll salute with his wine glass. "I could do worse than to be assistant to a madboy, provided they're not too mad. My aunt hasn't managed to blow herself or anyone else up. At least, not by accident. So I'll end up working for her, or some other Spark who needs a thinking minion."

Melisande found the thought made her stomach clench hard enough to smother the butterflies. "It sounds awful."

"Well, what do you plan to do with your linguistic education?" That could have sounded insulting except for the sympathetic note.

"Once I run out of things to study and excuses to make to my parents, you mean?" _Or, if I fail in regards to you? _"Go back to St. Petersburg, I suppose. If I do well enough at university, I can teach at the Conservatory. Or tutor children readying to apply to Paris. I'm from a good family so I'd be suitable to teach nobility's children." She felt her cheeks warm a bit, and was surprised at her own embarrassment and need to explain. "I know in England, and Wulfenbach's empire, so they say, it's mostly about who has the Spark, but we have so few . . . titles and land still count for a great deal. My mother's family has land, my father had money, it all worked out. So if I don't find a suitably respectable position, they could always marry me off. Probably will, eventually. My uncle and my mother's family is well-connected, so someone will be interested."

She saw the tightening of his jaw, and his eyes narrowed. "And you think my future career sounds awful?"

"It would be better than some girls get," she said. "Probably a Baron, since I'm only the daughter of a Count's youngest daughter. Perhaps I'll be a Count's second wife, or a Duke's if I'm very, very lucky." _Go on, think on that, not just some other man but an old one, one I don't even like. Let that stew for a while._ "The Grand Duke's family is rather beyond my aspirations, I'm afraid." Not to mention relatives, but cousins weren't so close it was impossible.

"I hadn't realized you were nobility," he said, but he looked away and she saw the conflicted expression cross his face.

"Anyone who's anyone in the Duchy has a title of some sort," she said. "It's nothing impressive, not unless you're a Duke or Duchess." She took one of the biscuits and nibbled at an edge. Given the situation, it was all too possible an outcome. If she was successful, it might even be viewed as some kind of reward. Though her alternative, if she interpreted her instructions liberally, might not be bad at all. "I'm not saying it's my first choice, but if I can't marry someone I l. . .like, I might as well marry up."

"Do you have to get married?" He had to know how foolish a question that was.

"I don't have the Spark, and I don't have a powerful family. My options are limited." Only a partial lie. Her parents' only influence was her mother's birth, but Uncle Oleg, on the other hand . . . "It could be worse. I could be from one of the Fifty Families and be at Baron Wulfenbach's mercy, for marriage and everything else."

"That is very true. At least both our respective countries are not under the Baron's thumb. Not yet, at any rate."

"And not ever," she said, raising her glass in a toast to that thought. He returned the gesture, expression deadly serious.

Once they had drunk to that, Adrsley settled himself on one elbow, looking a bit more relaxed. "Now we've covered our hopeless futures and the precarious political situations of our respective homelands, I suppose it's time to move on to flattery. I've been given some advice about how I'm supposed to compliment you, in hopes of being able to take shocking liberties once you're sufficiently charmed. Should I start with your hair or your eyes?"

Melisande nearly choked, but it was from trying not to laugh. It was a nice way to cover the flush that was creeping up her neck. "Oh, I don't know," she said, looking up through lowered lashes. (Another of Katia's tricks, one that seemed to work devastatingly well.) "You could always try skipping right to the shocking liberties."

_Yes!_ His eyes widened, and she could see his pupils dilate for just a moment. Gentleman he might be, but he wanted her. Meaning she had practically already won. "You know, I told my friend you weren't that sort of girl," he said, sounding painfully careful.

"Oh, I'm not," she assured him. _Not unless you really, really want me to be_. "But it would be fun to see you try and change my mind."

He stared at her for a moment and the slow grin was the most open, honest expression she'd seen on his face yet. "Really."

"You'd have to be very convincing, of course," she said, "and I'd have to pretend to be terribly, terribly shocked, but honestly, you think a non-gifted at a school full of Sparks hasn't had her skirts flipped with remote-control fans or scouted for Daugerre clanks in the ladies' dressing room?" That she'd reverse-engineered one into a very useful little watch-cum-pocket camera was information he could have once he was utterly coopted. He'd probably appreciate the irony, though.

"Well, not being a Spark," Ardsley said, sitting up just a bit and making a little more room for her to move closer, "I'm afraid I'm limited to more primitive strategies. Riskier, of course. Direct action always is."

"But the potential rewards are correspondingly greater." The entire reason for live, human agents in the place of clanks and constructs. She settled down on her side, chin resting on her hand, just a trace closer.

"Exactly. So, one learns to gauge risk, and decide when to take chances." His fingers brushed her palm and she shivered. "Sometimes, even in an experiment, you have to do the irrational thing."

"I've apparently been spending time in the wrong sort of labs." His thumb was stroking the pulse point of her wrist. Melisande fought an absurd urge to close her eyes. "Most of the risk-taking I've seen hasn't ended well for the risk-taker."

"You mean the usual famous last words of a Spark?" he said. His accent was even better soft and up close. "'I'm your creator, you will obey me?'" He was stroking her palm now, the tips of his fingers tracing the lines like a fortune-teller.

"And they think we envy them." She couldn't help it. It was close her eyes, or keep watching his, blue-grey and very close to hers, and looking at his eyes meant she risked looking at his mouth, and that could lead to all those places Baba Anya had warned her not to go yet. "I can happily live without the Spark if it means I'm never going to have a giant mechanical badger with venom darts for teeth turn on me."

"Hm." He'd raised her hand, very close to his mouth. "I may only be a 'non-intuitive' engineer, as we call them, but I must be more like my aunt than I thought."

"Why is that?" She risked a look. That smile did have a slightly madboy gleam to it.

"I find your imagination intriguing." He pressed his lips to her palm and it took all the self-control she had left not to sigh. "Enjoying the liberties?"

"They're positively shocking." She closed her eyes again. The crushed pine needles gave the air a rich, spicy scent, the sun dappling through the trees was warm, and between the food, the wine, and how her skin tingled like electrical shocks where he touched her, she could almost forget entirely this was business. "I ought to protest you being so forward."

"Yes, I'm almost starting to feel foolish for defending your reputation in advance." She opened her eyes, and Ardsley was grinning at her. "Of course, it will keep Gil disinterested. He only bothers with women he knows for sure are loose."

"What makes you think he'd be competition?" She mustered up a pout, though it was decidedly not in keeping with her mood. "After all, he ruined my notes with that coffee tray."

"I thanked him for that, you know." He gently brushed a stray lock of her hair back behind her ears. "Do you ever wear your hair down?"

Somehow, she remembered her instructions. "Not often. Not today, either." The disappointment in his eyes was perversely heartening. "A girl has to have some secrets."

"Really. I'm very good at figuring out secrets, you know."

And her stomach clenched with real fear. _How good? Good enough to know? _Melisande forced herself to relax; tension he might sense and read, correctly, as anxiety. "I can't make it too easy, though."

"I suppose not." He sat back, and it wasn't just a little twinge of regret she felt. "And I suppose it gives me something to look forward to."

"You're very confident, aren't you?" She turned, resting her chin on her hands. "What if I decide you're much too forward and indecent?"

Ardsley shook his head. "If you were really put off, you'd have done something when I kissed your hand just now. Slapped me, screamed, told me to stop. Instead, your pulse jumped, you sighed–"

"I didn't!" She hadn't thought she had, anyway.

"Well, very deep breaths then," he conceded, "and you were smiling. Q.E.D., you don't find me too forward. In fact, I might even be vain enough to hypothesize that you like me."

"I think you've spent too much time around Sparks." She looked away, wishing she could control blushes. "Though I'm not denying your hypothesis has merit."

"I'll prove it, before term's end. You watch." He reached for his glass and drained the last of the contents.

"That's weeks," she said. "You think you'll need that long?"

"You tell me." He looked at the remains of their lunch, and took another biscuit. "I've made one discovery already. You can cook."

"If you think those are good, I'll have you over for a proper Russian tea." Mushrooms, she'd have to find mushrooms, and proper farmer's cheese, herring, fresh and pickled, and she could always plead mission necessity to get a tin of real caviar from Baba Anya's personal supply. Of course, Baba Anya would understand, one didn't have a guest without feeding them properly . . . .

"Well, as long as I don't have to put jam in the tea instead of on the bread."

"I'll have you drinking it the proper way eventually, you wait." _I will, because I have you, I already have you, you're mine! _Melisande picked up the apple they'd both bitten, and this time she didn't worry about which bite was which.

The textbook looked like any other a student might carry. Especially a teacher's assistant who couldn't afford the newest and best of anything, and wouldn't worry about it being too worn or missing a few pages. Which meant, of course, in a school full of Sparks, and a target who was likely an even more powerful Spark than he was letting on, it was far too obvious a place to keep a codebook. It did, however, make a useful place to stick half-finished reports, as they looked much like all the other scraps of paper with notes scribbled on them. Ardsley took what, to anyone else might have looked like any other wrinkled bit of foolscap jammed between the pages, and smoothed it out. Opening the back of his watch, he double-checked the encryption wheel for which code he was supposed to be using, and, thoroughly prepared, he put his pen to the half-finished report. And stared.

He was in serious trouble. The sun, the food, the wine, it could all be contributing, but he was a trained espionage agent, he knew his own feelings. And conflicted was putting it mildly. For a few blissful hours, he'd almost forgotten he was anything but a student, enjoying a picnic with a beautiful girl who for some reason seemed to hang on his every word. Beautiful, clever, well-read, and to top it off she had certainly implied she was not poor, and there was that not-completely-hidden hint that she was not looking forward to being married off to some elderly Count on his second or third wife. And while he didn't doubt she would have protested any further liberties, she had certainly seemed to enjoy it as far as it went. Keeping from pressing the issue had been the greatest test of his self-control since Gil had created a construct with parts scrounged from dustbins behind some of Paris's finer dining establishments as a prank and the thing had, as most of these things seemed to, gone berserk. Of course then, the trick had only been toeing a fine line between acting terrified while still interested (and controlling combat reflexes just enough he didn't appear too competent fending off the escargot grenades.) That was far less challenging than restraining himself from very thoroughly kissing Melisande and losing himself completely.

It had almost happened when he'd again walked her to her door. For an instant he'd even been sure she wanted him to kiss her, and it had been a near thing, but fortunately or unfortunately the door to the Silver Samovar had opened at that exact moment and a student had stumbled out, his nose buried in notebooks, and slammed straight into them. Melisande had snapped at him in Russian, too quick and accented to follow. He'd blinked owlishly at them from behind a pair of magnifying spectacles, and Ardsley recognized the distracted expression of a Spark in deep thought.

"Vanya, really!" Melisande gathered up some of the papers he'd been carrying and thrust them back at him. Ardsley bent to retrieve the ones scattered at his feet, and caught a glimpse of one that appeared to be a map of the sewers below the arrondissement they were in. There were notes in Cyrillic scrawled on the margins, and what looked like engineering notations on the map itself. He had only an instant to decide, and instinct had taken over–a quick flick of the fingers and it was folded, a twist of the wrist and it was safely tucked up his sleeve.

And he could have sworn he saw a scrap disappearing into the pocket of Melisande's jacket.

The spark–Vanya–took the returned papers rather absently. "Sorry, Melichka. Don't know why you have him standing in doorways, though. You might as well bring him inside and have done with it."

"You talk too much, Ivan Sergei'ich." Her cheeks were flushed pink, but there was a hard glint in her eyes he hadn't seen before. "Tend to your labs and leave my business to me."

To Ardsley's surprise, in what was practically an unheard-of display of docility for a Spark, this Vanya shrugged and backed off a pace. "Just seems pointlessly impractical to me. And inconvenient for people wanting to use the door." He shuffled off, rearranging his papers, and Ardsley breathed a silent sigh of relief as the Spark rounded the corner without appearing to notice that one, possibly two, of his pages were missing.

Melisande let out a very loud sigh by contrast, and rubbed the back of her neck in a very unladylike way. "I am so sorry, Ardsley. Vanya . . .a Spark, you understand, my cousin Katia's friend. Not a very strong one, just . . . I am sorry, he was rude."

"Yes, a bit." He was tempted to go in for the kiss again, but the mood was broken. And besides, she might not have wanted him to do so in the first place. "He called you Melichka?" He was surprised at how annoyed he was the familiarity.

The flush in her cheeks turned a deeper shade of rose, only he now was not entirely certain it was modesty as much as annoyance. "My name is French. It's not as easy to shorten as most Russian names so that's the best they can do."

"Shall I call you Melichka, then?" It sounded harsh and somehow more alien.

He saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "No. No, I don't think so. I like how my real name sounds when you say it." He couldn't help raising an eyebrow, and she said, "Your accent."

"I never knew that was such an asset, Melisande." Subtle that wasn't, but from the way her breath quickened it worked. "I'll have to remember that."

"Do." And then she stood on her toes and kissed him, at the little place that was not quite the cheek and not quite the corner of his lips. Hours later he could still feel it. He had walked back to the university in such a daze he could have passed the Heterodyne Boys battling a mutant horde of fire-breathing gerbils and not paid them the slightest attention.

That wasn't good.

Ardsley tapped the pen on the paper, leaving a trail of specks across the bottom. What was he supposed to say, anyway? "Continued contact with subject, sought subject's advice about women, spent the most wonderful afternoon since arriving in Paris with said woman, can't think of anything but when I'll see her again?" It sounded even worse out loud than it did in his head. It would be a disaster of a report. Unless Lord M_ had someone hidden in reserve (which was always possible; they didn't call it the _Secret_ Service for nothing), only the fact that he was their best and only shot at placing an agent with the heir to Baron Wulfenbach would keep them from having him on the next airship back to Blighty.

What to do . . . .

The simple answer was, "Don't see Melisande again." The positive side was he'd no longer be distracted from his primary mission. The negative, of course, was life would be a gray, bleak, Wasteland-like expanse with no meaning at all, but there were always down sides.

Ardsley dropped his head to the desk. No, that wasn't an answer. The 'never seeing her again' part would come, inevitably, hopefully when he found a way to follow Gil home to Castle Wulfenbach. He was running out of time on that, so if it was going to happen, it would have to be soon. Gil had not completed his studies yet, but Ardsley himself was rapidly running out of cover stories. He'd dropped more than a few hints, hopefully subtle ones, about needing work, any work, and of course he had been getting by as an assistant at the university, demonstrating he was more than capable of helping a classroom full of budding Sparks, never mind just one. He had Gil's friendship and sympathy, and for all he was a son of the despot of Europa, that seemed to be worth a great deal. If and when the offer came, there was simply no question but that he'd be going alone. That was his job, his duty, and an absolute certainty, one he'd prepared for for years.

Until today, he'd been perfectly fine with that.

He sighed. "Queen and country, Ardsley. Queen and country." He re-inked the pen and started to write in the code, notes on each contact with Gil, the progress he was making, expenses related, and finally, at the bottom, he added a personal note:

_Had social encounter with female university student from Duchy of Moscow Melisande La Capere. Tea, picnic, light conversation. Maintained professional detachment._

"Right. Professional detachment." He folded the paper and returned it to the textbook. Later he'd use a silver stylus to copy it onto a metal sheet, leaving a near-invisible design. At H.Q. they'd use a special solvent to make the writing stand out. "At least you're still an accomplished liar."

Once the report was tucked away, Ardsley unfolded the paper Melisande's Spark friend had dropped. It was, as his cursory glance had suggested, an engineering schematic of part of the Paris catacombs. He had taken a cursory look at maps of them before (and gotten intimately acquainted with the section below the Paris Opera when Gil had that incident with the chorus girl and the madboy in the mask) but didn't know them well enough to see if this was an accurate rendering, or if there were additions made. The notes were, in typical Sparkish fashion, clear as the contents of the sewers. "Outlets to Seine, draining, narrowed tunnel with reassembled brickwork. Skeletons won't do at all . . . ." Maybe his Russian wasn't as good as he'd thought. It was gibberish, and not even the usual "I will show them all" sort of nonsense every Spark was prone to. The engineering notations mostly seemed to involve redirecting the water through a series of increasingly narrow channels, but to where he couldn't tell. That notation had apparently been made on another sheet.

Ardsley gave up, and stuck the paper in the book. Later he could look up the sewer maps in the library, assuming they let him in after he completely avoided work all day. For now, though, he was going to have to do something about the headache he was developing. Putting out the light, lying down, and thinking about how Melisande had trembled when he kissed her hand, about the warm press of her body against him as she reached up and kissed him . . . .

He sighed, and put out the lamp. If nothing else, he ought to have pleasant dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimers in chapter one.

Melisande told herself she was, truly, going to the library to do research. There were simply no guarantees of seeing Ardsley. He might not work today. He might have been let go for not showing up the day before. In any case she could quite easily find his home, and she knew he had a laboratory course to assist with this afternoon. While she was sure he could disappear as expertly as the next spy when he needed to (and as the next spy she knew how easy that could be) he had no reason to vanish now. Not from her, anyway.

And she did need help unraveling whatever was in Vanya's notes. She wasn't sure what had possessed her to pocket one of the scattered papers–spite, probably, as she'd been so sure Ardsley was going to kiss her before Vanya had come barging out and ruined things. But he'd also been very strange of late, at least, stranger than even was normal for a Spark. He was spending every evening either huddled in the tea room with his papers and notes, scribbling like the madboy he was, or vanishing somewhere. She presumed to his lab, but as she'd received her assignment already, her mind had been on Ardsley Wooster and not on figuring out what Sparks allegedly working for the same Secret Police she was were up to. Now she was starting to wonder if that might have been a mistake. A rookie mistake, to be sure, and she was entitled to those on her first mission away from home. Vanya had something to do with Katia's purpose here, but as she was not involved she hadn't been read into that operation. Baba Anya presumably was, but she would have told Melisande if it had any bearing on her mission.

Of course she ought to have told Vanya to refrain from any snide remarks to Melisande's target, too, but that would have been asking for self-restraint. Sparks weren't known for that, hence how rarely they were used as field agents. That at least did leave work for the rest of them.

The paper she'd pocketed had a sketch of what looked like a sluice gate of some sort, with a series of notes in Vanya's handwriting that made almost no sense beyond being in reasonably-grammatical Russian. She'd found a few books on dams and aqueducts and was trying to find something that resembled whatever Vanya was working on so intently. She'd found pictures of dams designed to generate power, dams designed to selectively drown villages on cue, aqueducts that fueled fountains made of spinning blades and exploding pumps, and even sketches that theorized about whatever mechanism dammed the stream beneath Castle Heterodyne in Mechanicsburg. Nothing, though, that explained why one might want to make a cascading series of gates designed to be built in tunnels. Plenty to suggest one shouldn't get one's water from a well designed by the local madboy, though.

"Well, well. Turned studious, have you?" Even in a library-appropriate whisper, Katia could sound arch.

"Me? Always." Melisande slipped the sketch underneath her notes, feeling a pang of guilt as she did. Katia was, after all, supposed to be on her side. Not to mention her cousin. Hiding things from her felt unnatural, but some instinct was saying this was the right thing to do. "I'm more surprised to see you here." _Surprised you could even find the library, truth to tell._

"I was curious." She certainly didn't look like a student. Even wearing in an ordinary walking dress, Katia managed to be the most elegant person in the room, not that it was difficult in a university full of Sparks, some of whom would probably forget to dress if left entirely to their own devices. "So . . . where's your gentleman?"

"Sh!" Melisande glanced over her shoulder, but no one was paying them attention. "I have no idea. I came here to study."

"Oh, of course you did." The condescending sarcasm was practically visible. "He just happens to work at the library and you just happened to decide you desperately needed to study today, in that very library, after spending all yesterday evening wandering around like a moonstruck dunce with that smile on your face . . . ."

"Ekaterina Olegevna, I did not!" At least she didn't think she had. Most of yesterday, from the time she and Adsley parted, was a pleasant blur. She was dreading transcribing her report because the notes she'd scribbled probably had much to do with the bread and the pine needles and the scent of his skin when she'd kissed him as with any practical knowledge gleaned about his situation (family background, as expected, reason for being in Paris, undetermined as of yet.) Uncle Oleg was not going to be interested in her thoroughly distracted rambling influenced by too much wine and sunlight. "It was a nice change, that's all."

"I'm sure." Katia's eyes narrowed. "Still, you seemed awfully happy . . . you're not actually falling in love with him, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Thank whatever saints and angels looked over foolish spies that Katia couldn't hear the funny little flutter the butterflies in her stomach did at the suggestion. "How would I fall in love with someone when I can't even tell him who I am? I like him, that's all, and considering what I'm supposed to do that's a good thing. I haven't forgotten what I'm doing, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it. Just ask Baba Anya, she'll tell you the same thing."

"Well, I'm glad you're so professional about it. Anything else would be awkward, especially if we have to kill him. So you probably noticed he's right over there, too." Katia pointed, discretely, at something over Melisande's shoulder.

"What?" In spite of herself, she nearly tipped over her chair turning to look. Ardsley was there, trailing along in that Gil Holzfäller's wake, toting a load of books while Gil scribbled on a notepad with a madboy's typical intensity. Ardsley's primary job seemed to be pulling books from shelves, carrying books, and nodding as if all the babbling and scribbling made perfect sense.

Then he looked up over the growing stack of texts, and saw her.

Melisande turned back around, feeling the heat creeping up the back of her neck. "Oh, no. Is he still looking?"

Katia looked torn between sneering and laughing. "Yes, he is. And unless you've learned how to blush on command, in which case I bow to your acting abilities, you do like him."

"He's not coming over, is he?" She didn't dare look, but when Katia didn't say anything she had to risk it. Adsley had stopped following his friend, who had noticed. Gil, blinking with that distracted-Spark expression they all got when pulled out of their fugues, looked over his shoulder, and then followed Ardsley's gaze to their table. The annoyed expression changed with mind-boggling speed from confusion to suspicion to realization to a kind of unholy yet oddly good-natured glee. He turned and said something to Ardsley (whom she couldn't help notice was still looking at her) and whatever it was, it had Ardsley shaking his head and resisting as Gil grabbed his arm.

"Oh, no. They're both coming over." She turned back to Katia. "Maybe you should go."

"Me? Oh, no." Katia grinned, and unlike the expression on Gil Holzfäller's face, it definitely leaned towards malicious. "What's the matter, Melichka, don't you want your boyfriend to meet your family?"

"Only family by unfortunate accident of birth," Melisande muttered, but she said it in Hebrew, which she knew Katia didn't understand. If she wasn't leaving, she wasn't leaving, and that gave Melisande about thirty seconds to gather herself as Ardsley, looking very reluctant, was pulled along by the elbow as Gil made his way to their table. For as big a rakehell as her observations and Ardsley's comments implied, Gil certainly had an aura of authority. Though perhaps it was just the Spark.

He stopped at the side of their table, and looked expectantly at Ardsley. When the latter didn't speak quickly enough, there was a sharp elbow to the ribs that nearly sent the precariously-balanced stack of books tumbling. "Uh–hello, Melisande," Ardsley said, and she noted he chose Europa-German, not French. "My friend here," and she heard just the slightest wry twist to his voice, "wanted me to introduce him. Melisande La Capere, this is–"

"Gil Holzfäller," the Spark interrupted, reaching out and snatching up her hand to plant a very courtly kiss on her knuckles. No butterflies, though, and she was somewhat relieved. "I simply had to meet you. What on Earth have you done to my friend here?"

"I–to–ah–" There really wasn't any way to answer that. She heard Katia sniff derisively, and somewhere in her mind a gear clicked over. "What surprises you? That I'd interest him? That's hardly polite, Herr Holzfäller."

He blinked, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Ardsley tense–almost imperceptibly, but still out of keeping with the situation. Then Gil laughed. "I was wondering more what interest an English stick in the mud could possibly hold for a lovely girl like you. I mean, a fellow like me, with brains and looks and an excellent wit, naturally the ladies are drawn like flies to honey, but a bookworm like Ardsley? I had to find out what had caught your eye."

It was strange, but somehow, in all that bluster, she detected two things–an undertone of genuine affection, and an intent to pry. He wanted to know exactly what were her designs on his friend, and she could hardly blame him for that.

Still, he certainly had a tweak coming. "Why, his modesty, of course." Melisande enjoyed the look of consternation on Gil's face, and she also saw, over his shoulder, the surprise and . . . was it hope? . . . on Ardsley's.

She was a horrible, horrible person.

Gil recovered quickly. "Well said, Mademoiselle!" He grinned. "She does have a point, Wooster, you're very modest. You need to practice your bragging a bit."

Ardsley shifted his grip on the stack of books, which had obviously been grabbed from the shelves and handed off without regard for size or ease of stacking. "With all due respect for your expertise, Gil, I do seem to be doing all right." He gave Melisande a polite, just slightly possessive, smile, and the butterflies were back in violent force. Then he glanced across the table. "But we're being rude. Would you introduce us to your friend?"

A glance told her he'd spoken none too soon. If there was one thing Katia hated it was being ignored. "Of course. This is my cousin, Ekaterina Olegevna. Katia, this is Gil Holzfäller and of course, I've told you about Ardsley Wooster."

Katia stood up. It was amazing how she could make such a simple action as standing absolutely lascivious. Gil and Ardsley both took notice, from the looks on their faces, but something in Ardsley's expression hardened just a bit, and that warmed her heart far more than it really should have. Katia, after all, was still family and colleague, while Ardsley was . . . Ardsley.

Not only despicable, she was doomed.

"A pleasure, Mein Herr," and Katia accepted a kiss on the hand from Gil with a flutter that suggested she derived more than just butterflies in the stomach from the gesture. "And so this is my little cousin's . . . friend. I've heard much about you, Herr Wooster."

Ardsley, for his part, looked less than certain, plus relieved his hands were still occupied with the stack of books. "I'm not sure whether I should be flattered or worried."

"Oh, flattered," Katia said. "My little cousin hasn't thought of anything else the last few days. She was practically walking into walls all yesterday evening. Whatever did you do?"

Melisande was pleased to see she wasn't the only one subject to blushing. Between Katia's coy insinuations and the two raised eyebrows from his friend, Ardsley was turning a fascinating shade of pink. "Simply behaved as a proper English gentleman," he said. "I confess, I've been . . . thinking a great deal about yesterday, as well."

"Very proper," Melisande said, but she found she was smiling at him without forcing it, simply thinking about how nice it had been when he held her hand, kissed it . . . .

A snicker from Gil snapped her out of it. "Now you're both doing it-I haven't seen so many idiot grins since someone set off that canister of aether of Venus in the student canteen. What have I been telling you, Wooster?" He gave his friend a slap on the shoulder almost hard enough to dislodge the books. "You needed to find yourself a girl."

"Gil, really . . . it's hardly a decent subject . . . ." Ardsley threw a pleading, apologetic glance Melisande's way.

"What? All I said was you needed some feminine company, nothing more." Gil somehow managed to pull a positively angelic face. "I don't know what you _thought_ I meant, but apparently your mind was already headed that way."

It would have been cruel, if it weren't true. It would have been embarrassing, if her own mind weren't already trending exactly the same way. "If that is the case, Herr Holzfäller, it makes Ardsley . . . much the same as every other young man I've met in Paris. Only more gentlemanly." She wished there were some tactful way to take his arm, but it was probably for the best. Those were a lot of books.

"Touche, Mademoiselle," and he switched between German and French as fluidly as she or Ardsley, his accent almost as good. "The English and their manners, eh? They say even the servants could pass for nobility anywhere else in Europa."

"That doesn't speak very highly of Europa's nobility," she retorted.

"Speaking from experience?" Such a tiny note to Ardsley voice, but she knew Katia heard it as well, even if Gil Holzfäller missed it. He was thinking of her comments about marriages to counts and barons.

Katia sniffed. "Melisande? She keeps her nose so stuck in her books I doubt she'd know a baronet from a coronet. Probably wouldn't notice Baron Wulfenbach if she tripped over him."

Melisande laughed softly, even though it wasn't really that funny, and of course, everyone would recognize the Baron. After just the barest fraction of a pause, Gil snorted, too, but she saw that Ardsley was simply watching him, a curiously professional blankness to his features. He was looking for something in Gil's reaction, but she had no idea what it was or whether he saw it as Gil turned, and suddenly Ardsley's face was relaxed, with just a hint of a puzzled smile touching the corners of those thoroughly honest blue-gray eyes. Melisande felt an admiring shiver down her spine. She'd seen the spy at work, though she wasn't sure why here, why now, but the transformation was brilliantly done, far beyond what she'd expect.

Ardsley, for his part, simply said "Anyone who tripped over the Baron would probably have problems besides recognizing him."

"No doubt," Gil said. "And if you can believe it, the Baron's not the scariest thing aboard Castle Wulfenbach."

"Oh, really?" Katia arched an eyebrow. "You've been aboard Castle Wulfenbach to know?"

Gil grinned devilishly. "Been there? I grew up there."

"It's the truth," Ardsley said. "At least, he's got so many stories that are so convincing, if it's not true he's the best storyteller I've ever met."

Melisande knew what Katia was thinking, because she was thinking the same thing. Only children of the ruling classes were educated aboard Castle Wulfenbach, at least that was the story everyone heard. Suddenly, a British spy tagging after a Spark like Gil made a certain degree of sense. "Well, if Ardsley says you're telling the truth, then I believe it." She smiled at him, ignoring the quiet snort from Katia.

"And I for one would like to hear some of these stories." Katia did some odd little shift with her shoulders, and abruptly Gil seemed fascinated by something that required him to look somewhere below Katia's chin and above her waist. Ardsley's gaze was trending in the same direction, and then he caught Melisande's eye, and had the grace to blush and look away in a safer direction. "Did you have the time, Herr Holzfäller?"

"Oh, I think I can find a few minutes." He crooked an elbow and Katia slid her arm through his. She was truly an expert at simpering, Melisande noted.

"Are you two coming?" And at sounding as if she didn't care whether you lived or died.

"Yes, come on, Wooster. My little project–" Gil waved at the stack of a dozen or so books– "can wait."

"Gil, I can't. I'm already in trouble from missing work yesterday," though the look he gave Melisande told her he didn't really regret that. "If I take off now I could lose my position."

"What's more important, one of your many jobs," Gil asked, "or a lovely young lady?" He gave Melisande a half-bow.

"Yes," Katia chimed in, "what's more important?"

"Katia, enough." Melisande gave her cousin as dirty a look as she dared. "I don't want to get Ardsley in any trouble."

"Believe me, if I thought I could get away, I would." He was still looking at her, and she saw nothing but sincerity in his expression. "I just can't take the chance."

"You disappoint me, Wooster," Gil sighed. "Though I suppose I can entertain two ladies at once. Shall we, ladies?"

Melisande hesitated. Ardsley obviously saw. "There's no need to stay on my account. I have to finish here, and I'm assisting a lab this afternoon. I wish I didn't have to, but . . . ."

"I could wait." The words came out without thought and Melisande felt as surprised as Ardsley looked. On brief examination she realized she meant it–sitting and waiting for him to be done and free to see her was far more appealing than listening to Katia charm Gil, as she was inevitably going to do.

"All day?" Katia sounded painfully arch. "I knew you were sheltered, cousin, but really." Turning to look, besides Katia's sneer she caught Gil grinning at Ardsley and rapidly lowering his hand from what she suspected was a thumbs-up gesture.

"I appreciate the offer, truly," Ardsley, in the tone of a man carefully tiptoeing around a mine field, "but . . . ."

"I do have things I can work on here." And she did, not least deciphering Vanya's odd notes. "Really, I don't mind."

"Maybe I underestimated you, Ardsley," Gil said. "Once you're finished, maybe you can join us at la Moulin–that _is _all right, Mademoiselle?" From the dazzlingly stupid smile Katia gave him, it was perfectly fine. Well, she hadn't had much to do since that officer of the Serpents she'd been "coopting" had drowned in the squids-in-the-sewer incident. It might improve her mood and get her out of Melisande's hair. "If you both can't find better ways to spend an evening."

She was certain her face was as red as Ardsley's was turning. Between the two of them they were probably blushing bright enough to illuminate the whole room. "I say, Gil . . . ."

"We'll see you later, then! Oh, set those books aside for me, would you? I'll need them later." He might be obnoxious, but Gil certainly knew how to make an exit, sweeping out with Katia on his arm as if he was leaving a grand ball.

Ardsley looked slightly abashed. "So . . . that was Gil."

"So I gathered." Melisande tried not to laugh. "Here, give me some of those before you drop them." She took the top four off the stack, and glanced at the titles. "_Nitrogen Compounds: Their Uses and Abuses_? _The Tactics of Hannibal's Expeditionary Force_? _Low-Temperature Physics_?" She paused. "And Escoffier's guide to sauces? Do I want to know?"

"_I_ don't want to know and I'll probably end up helping build . . . whatever he has in mind." He sighed. "Gil means well. Whatever he's planning, it should at least be entertaining. And _mostly_ harmless."

Melisande sighed. It shouldn't worry her so much. At least, not other than professionally–her mission would be as much of a bust as Katia's if Ardsley got himself blown up in some sort of lab accident. Yes, she had to worry about him, it was a professional responsibility. "What possesses them? Sparks, I mean."

"I suspect there are many people who'd pay dearly for the answer to that question," he sighed. "So if you think of it, mind letting me know?"

"We'll split the profits." She smiled. "I wasn't just saying it to get rid of them, you know. I can wait. I've no lectures today."

"I do appreciate it, truly. But once I'm finished here, I'm assisting in Professor Lanius in his lab demonstration." He grimaced. "At least today is just the internal anatomy of sea creatures, so probably no one will lose any limbs. Assuming this time he keeps the shark sedated."

Melisande tried not to look too horrified. It shouldn't surprise her, it really shouldn't, but she knew Sparks as well as he did, and that meant the assistant without the Gift would be the one grabbing for the man-eating fish if it decided to make a break for it, probably aided and abetted by said Spark having grafted legs and lungs on it. "Is it an open lecture?"

Ardlsey raised an eyebrow. "Are you actually interested, or just curious to see if I survive the experience?"

"Worried." If she had a good seat in the operating theater's gallery, she might even have a clear shot at anything that broke free, and in the sort of commotion escaping creations usually caused, she might even be able to disappear into the crowd before anyone realized who'd fired. Long odds, but a possibility. "I . . . ." Something painfully honest seemed to be demanding control of her voice, and strangely enough English seemed like the right language for it. "I . . . rather like you, Ardsley Wooster, and I don't want to see you get hurt." It came out in such a rush she mentally backtracked, hoping she'd gotten the grammar right. She'd figure out what had possessed her to say it at all later.

His eyes widened, and he looked away quickly. This time there was no blushing, but rather his face had lost quite a bit of color. "If you don't want to see me hurt, then perhaps observing this afternoon wouldn't be the best idea."

"It's that, or sit somewhere worrying about all the horrible things that could be happening that I'm not there to see."

"You'd really be worrying about me?" He still wasn't quite looking at her, and she wondered what calculations were going on behind the unreadable expression.

"As I said," and she chose her words carefully–so many ways to go wrong here, "I think I like you."

He was deciding something, she could see that. "It starts at three, if you really want to , watch. It's Professor Lanius and a couple of his most senior students. I'll mostly be holding the tools."

"As long as you're standing well back."

"I'll try." He looked straight at her again, and there was some sort of decisiveness to his smile, even if she wasn't quite sure about what. "And I suppose once it's finished, assuming I'm still in one piece, we probably ought to take Gil up on his invitation. Not least because if we don't I'll never hear the end of it. Or he'll draw some . . . ungentlemanly conclusions about what we're up to instead."

"And we wouldn't want him thinking that, would we." Baba Anya was right, of course, give him everything now and he'd lose interest quick, but it was going to be so very hard waiting. "All right, then, I'll see you at the lecture and we can see if your friend's survived dealing with my cousin."

"Should I be worried for Gil?"

Melisande actually had to consider that. "Probably not. Katia's just bored, and while she's not as dumb as she might seem, she's not likely to do him any lasting damage. At least not unless he's easily heartbroken."

"Gil?" Ardsley snorted. "He might have a problem with breaking hearts, but his own? You might want to warn your cousin off."

"Now, if Katia hadn't spent the last three days sniping at me about you, I might." She grimaced. "As it is, she's a big girl. She can take care of herself. And you–" She glanced around, but no one seemed to be giving two mundane students a second glance so the coast was clear to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "You take care of yourself. I don't want to see you lose any limbs."

"You can't possibly want that more than I do." But he had a slightly silly grin that said he wasn't thinking too much about losing a limb any more.

For the next few weeks, Ardsley found he wasn't thinking nearly as much about the inherent hazards of working with Sparks. Even tailing along after Gil to the sort of night clubs, bordellos and opium dens his friend favored no longer was quite as much a chore-crossed-with-tightrope-walking it had seemed before. Not least because Gil seemed to find it amusing that all he had to do was mention Melisande by name and Ardsley's mind promptly wandered to blissful daydreams about the last time he'd seen her, or the next time he would, whichever was sooner. It was not nearly as often as he might have liked, but it was as often as he could possibly manage without his mission suffering. There was an odd degree of crossover, as Gil was always ready to help with a suggestion for a gift (usually something Ardsley couldn't afford), a place to go (likewise, or someplace he couldn't imagine Melisande would find appealing, like the Island of the Monkey Girls), or something charming and witty to say (which at least was often useful for making her laugh.) If anything, it was almost too convenient, too soothing, too easy to fall into this identity completely. Gil was sympathetic, and Melisande . . . .

Ardsley blinked. The optics lab was still quiet (as it ought to be at this hour of the morning, when most students were either still sleeping the sleep of the not-so-innocent future mad scientists, or stumbling in from another night on the town) but he still shouldn't be wool-gathering. He'd come here to take advantage of that, not daydream. It was getting too easy to do that of late. In part, that was why he was doing this–the end of term was coming, and that would be the best time, whether the offer he was waiting for came or not. But one couldn't part with a lady without giving her some token, even if one had to make it oneself.

Of course, if he were a Spark, this would be a great deal easier.

Glass-cutting ought to come naturally, he thought grimly, to someone raised in the Glass City. Strange how when you were raised with something, you never gave a second thought to the sheer amount of work that went into its creation, at least until you tried to do something related on a minuscule scale and . . .couldn't. His fingers were stinging from a hundred tiny glass cuts, but attempting to wear gloves simply meant he didn't have fine enough dexterity to manipulate the tools. That was the true curse of the 'non-intuitive' who was still clever enough to be thought of as more than mindless-minion material–coming up with ideas did not, as with Sparks, automatically come with the knowledge of how to make those ideas work.

There was also the fact that figuring out what Sparks were doing was unnecessarily complex. It wasn't unusual that he'd crossed paths with Melisande's Spark friend, Vanya, given how much time he'd been spending with her and the fact that most young Sparks were in Paris to attend university. But even among Sparks, Vanya seemed strange. He was constantly scribbling, even while walking down the street. He also, from what Ardsley could glean from Melisande's comments, seemed to disappear without warning, and of late had been coming in smelling vaguely of the river. All that certainly suggested he was doing something with that damming system he'd been sketching. Where and what, though, was a mystery, and he couldn't think of how to ask without arousing suspicions. It was bad enough he'd caught himself more than once seconds from blurting out something that would have been impossible to explain without explaining everything.

More disturbing, he had found himself seriously considering, more than once, just confessing it all. Stranger still, there were times when he thought Melisande checked her own tongue, as if she'd wanted to say something and stopped herself at the last second. He could simply be projecting, and it was easy to do–he didn't remember spending time with someone before when he felt as if they understood exactly what he was talking about, even when he wasn't saying anything. He'd heard of 'companionable silence', of course, but had never before experienced it. Sitting in the Bois, as they had several times since that first picnic, with Melisande resting her head on his shoulder, he found he was utterly content to forget Queen, country, and Gilgamesh Wulfenbach completely and simply relax. It was so pleasant it was disconcerting.

He couldn't afford that. Simply couldn't. Nor, intriguing as it might be, could he be distracted by whatever Sparkish scheme Vanya was concocting, at least not unless it put him or Gil in danger. What he would do if it put Melisande in danger, he found he couldn't say–her, or his cover story? Of course, he was well-trained, it was always possible one didn't necessarily conflict with the other. If it came to saving her, it might be Gil never had to know–

Ardsley shook his head violently. Focus on the task at hand and remember it was a going-away gift, a parting forever sort of present, and all the more reason to make it perfect. He considered the array of tools and materials on the workbench and selected a finer-tipped diamond blade, and a fresh piece of the aqua-tinted glass. The angle had to be extremely precise–

"Ow!" Another tiny sliver cracked off and jabbed him in the fingertip. With his luck, today Gil would want to do something like convert lemon juice into a new fuel-cell component. "Damn and blast." He tossed the cutter back on the table and stuck his wounded finger in his mouth. Theoretically, this should work perfectly. Making the metal frame had been easy. The theory behind cutting the glass at the correct angles was sound, as it had worked on large-scale experimental attempts. But cutting it fine enough, in small enough pieces, was apparently impossible.

He looked around furtively, but there was no one to have heard his frustrated outburst. Several of the worktables were in states of disarray, suggesting whichever students had used them last were . . . typical Sparks, or would-bes, who always assumed there'd be a minion along to clean up the razor-sharp bits of glass, discarded crystals, brass fittings deemed useless imperfections, and notes casually discarded–

He saw one set of notes with familiar Cyrillic handwriting.

It really wasn't proper to go rooting through other students' things, even when they were left lying in the open, and was in fact against the University's official policy. Of course that meant everyone made a habit of leaving decoys and booby-trapped notes to deter everyone else who immediately tried to steal anything not locked away. Ardsley checked carefully for traps and noted the positions of any tools, parts, and motes of dust before carefully lifting the sheets of paper from the table.

The handwriting was Vanya's, he recognized it from the other notes he'd stolen. This time, the metalwork looked more like parts of some kind of clank. There were studies of joints, equations measuring stress, violent scratches through notes that obviously hadn't worked or had just somehow offended the Sparkish ego. And strangely enough, though he was fairly certain the notes were for designing a clank, a machine, some of the pieces certainly seemed to resemble bone, like one drawing that seemed to be half a skull riveted onto a hinge mechanism. The eye sockets were covered with crystals of some sort, and going by the facets they were meant to be focusing devices of some sort. The notes were incomplete, so he couldn't tell if the skeletal additions served any practical purpose beyond making the clanks look more intimidating. Not that they needed much help–one sketch showing an arm, complete with a human ulna, had at its wrist a spinning saw blade instead of a hand. Where did they get their fascination with knives?

Footsteps, none too steady by the sound of them, echoed in the hall, and Ardsley quickly returned the notes to their precise spot on the work table, and turned back to his own project. Not that he was getting anywhere, unless injured counted as somewhere. He could either ask for help, and have to deal with the usual condescension (though at least Gil never quite looked like he wanted to pat the poor minion on the head), or admit defeat and go find some suitable token he could buy for what he could afford. It wouldn't be anything as nice as he'd planned, but perhaps it would be slightly less humiliating.

The door to the lab crashed open, just as Ardsley made it back to his own workbench. He supposed he shouldn't really have been surprised by whose voice he heard, even at this hour of the morning. "And in here, my dear, is the optics lab, which as you can see is totally deserted this time of day–" Gil's sweeping tour interrupted itself. "Except for my friend here. Wooster, what in world–did you fall asleep studying?"

"I was working on something. I assumed the lab would be empty, since most people are asleep at this hour." He looked past Gil, at the latest object of his friend's fleeting affections–another East Indian girl, though not, to his relief, the psychopath with the skull bindi. This girl appeared to be less a pirate than one of the Island of the Monkey Girls' chorus dancers, and she appeared to be duly impressed by the university's labs and Gil's . . . intellect. "It's not going so well. If you two want to . . . have a look around, I'll just pack up and go."

"Working on what?" Gil must not be overly impressed with this girl because he sounded genuinely interested. "Aren't you supposed to be done with class projects and tests?"

"Just a personal idea." He picked up his original, blotted sketches, shaking off the glass shards and handed them over. "It was . . . it was going to be a gift for Melisande, and the principle appeared sound in the large-scale models I made, but when I tried to cut the glass for the smaller size–"

"Yes, yes, I see." The subtle resonance was already starting in Gil's voice. "It's a simple matter of refraction, but for the size you want for this design–you tried using normal diamond cutters, didn't you?" It sounded practically accusatory.

"Naturally." In spite of himself, in spite of knowing, intellectually, it was a typical minion reaction to a Spark, he found himself picking up on Gil's building madboy enthusiasm. "Attempting to fracture it wouldn't create the precise angles–"

"Of course, of course, but you're not thinking small enough!" With a quick sweep of his hand, Gil knocked aside the carefully-selected tools Ardlsey had laid out. "I need a work apron, new sheets–get the two-millimeter Viennese leaded, not this junk. Part of your problem is cheap materials."

"Considering how much it costs, it's supposed to be only for classwork, for advanced students," and he left unsaid "with the Spark."

Gil waved a dismissive hand at him. "So it's for my classwork. If we can build this, I'll just make another and call it an extra-credit project. Get the glass, and microcutters from the biology lab, the ones from the small-scale dissection kit. Oh, and find a vial Dr. Veneficus's Transparent Mercury. And get me some goggles!"

"I'm on it." Ardsley was halfway out the door before he realized he was on his way.

The girl, her very pretty face increasingly marred with annoyance, grabbed his arm as he passed. "Is he going to be at this all morning?" she demanded. "He said he was going to show me the University and then we could have breakfast. In bed." The lilting accent did absolutely nothing to mask the ire.

"When he gets like this? Could be hours." Normally, he would have been a little less cavalier, but Gil's sudden enthusiasm was contagious. "If you'll excuse me, miss." He hurried down the hall, mentally reciting Gil's list of supplies as he went. His own project or not, once there was an anxious Spark involved, it was best not to keep them waiting.


	3. Chapter 3

"Melichka, really. This is a dangerous situation already," said Baba Anya, though she managed as always to look perfectly unflappable. "The more nervous you are, the more he will suspect."

"I don't care if he suspects anything, I just don't want to put him off!" She turned around, surveying the little tea room. The samovar was glowing hot, the little pot atop it full of the dark, potent concentrate that made a proper Russian tea. A side table had been brought in, and it was groaning with the weight of every little delicacy she could come by or conceive of in Paris–rolled herring in a variety of sauces, savory chicken livers wrapped with bacon, pickles of every variety she could find, vegetable caviars, salty Baltic cheeses, tangy black bread, crisp toast rounds, and in a silver bowl with a very ancient mother-of-pearl spoon, there glistened a little mound of real beluga caviar. A covered platter beside it held blini ready for topping with sour cream and the precious gray-black delicacy. Baba Anya had indeed surrendered one of her own supply for this very important visitor. Besides the savories, there were tea-cakes buried in powdered sugar, crescent cookies filled with sweet nut paste, and vareniki filled with preserves with sweet cream to top them. Melisande put her hands on her hips, looking for something to criticize, but everything seemed as perfect as they could possibly make it in Paris instead of Petersburg.

"That is your worry?" Baba Anya sounded oddly constrained, far more careful than she normally was. "That you will scare him away, not that he will suspect your motives?"

"He has no reason to suspect my motives." She meant that professionally, truly she did, she told herself yet again. "Ardsley sees a girl who adores him and wants to impress him, and it's no more than he deserves. But the last week or so, he's seemed very strange. Not withdrawn, though with the English that's so hard to tell, but . . . worried. Sad." She paused. "It's as if he's waiting for something he doesn't want to come."

"You have not been yourself either, goddaughter." Baba Anya so rarely used the title, it brought Melisande up short. "Child . . . remember what I have told you–real feelings are a danger in these cases."

"I'm not a child," though that came out far more petulant than she'd meant it. "And you've been talking to Katia."

"I have been observing," Baba Anya countered. "I am responsible for all of you and your missions, and you have been spending far more time at this one than it really should have taken. This is our best chance yet of placing a double agent in England. Failing that, you gain what knowledge you can and leave him none the wiser. If necessary–"

"Don't say it. Don't even think it." She knew what her godmother had been about to say and she knew her orders and she knew, at heart, that one she could not obey.

"Then succeed. Any other ending would be . . . unfortunate. And if it is necessary, I promise it will not be any easier to kill him if you truly care for him. Do not make it necessary." She paused. "You are still not lovers yet?" There was a note of disapproval to the question.

"I wish you'd make up your mind. First it was too soon, now I can't spread my legs for him fast enough." It was crude, but she wasn't really in the mood to be polite on the subject. "No. There were . . . moments, but somehow it's never been the right moment." An interrupting passer-by, one of the Serpents' patrols strolling past as they'd tried for an intimate moment after a late evening, ruining the mood . . . it was as if the entire city was conspiring against her, and the frustrations had long ceased to be professional in nature. Increasingly lingering kisses, bodies pressed close–so much promise with so little chance to act on it was enough to drive her out of her skin with frustration. "Soon, though, or I'll go mad."

Baba Anya didn't look entirely pleased. "Remember, this is a matter of duty."

"I am perfectly in control of my feelings," Melisande said, "and speaking of responsibility, I could do without interference from Katia and Vanya. Don't they have something else they could be doing?"

"Katia's position, given the situation with her intended target, is being reassessed. As for Vanya, he is being kept until there is a use for him. I have asked they not interfere with your mission. Have they disobeyed?"

"Not recently." Though Katia had, since that first week, still turned up on Gil Holzfäller's arm once or twice that Melisande had observed. "Vanya is not working on anything for us?" That part, given how he increasingly vanished and on his reappearance left a stink of must and dank water in his wake, made no sense at all.

"Nothing I'm aware of." Now the concern in Baba Anya's eyes wasn't for Melisande. "Why?"

Before she could speak, there was a gentle tap at the curtained wall of the alcove. "Madame?" One of the serving girls peeked around the half-drawn curtain. "The young English gentleman is here."

Melisande took a deep breath and smoothed the dark-blue skirts of her best dress. "Do I look all right? Do you think we have enough food?"

"You look perfectly lovely, and we have enough food to feed a brigade of Jaegers just back from action." Baba Anya remained seated, serene, at the table. "Show him in, Olga."

The girl bobbed a quick curtsey and vanished. Melisande smoothed her skirts again, and sat in one of the other chairs. Then she realized that would definitely wrinkle her skirts and stood up again. She thought she heard a rustling that might have been Baba Anya about to say something, and a quick sharp look cut that off. Then the curtain drew back again, and Olga stepped aside to allow Ardsley Wooster to enter. Melisande saw at a glance he'd done his best to dress up, too, in what were probably the best waistcoat and trousers he owned, and he'd obviously had his greatcoat cleaned and pressed. The expression on his face seemed wary, and she noted how he took in all the details of the room quickly before turning on that, as far as she could see, genuine smile when he looked at her. "Melisande," and then he looked to the figure at the table, "Madame," and the bow was not deep, but elegant.

"Ardsley!" The relief she heard in her own voice was real, though whether it was that he'd decided to come, or that his arrival ended the awkward questions from Baba Anya, she didn't know. Taking both his hands, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek-not the quick, two or three (whatever the fashion was nowadays) pecks in the air, but just long enough to be intimate and just short enough Baba Anya didn't have time to object. He tilted his head just a bit and tightened his grip on her hands, holding the contact just a bit longer. "I'm so glad you came."

"I could hardly refuse," and he stepped back, though without taking his eyes off her, and

she noticed he spoke Russian as a matter of course. Melisande wished the sound of it with his English accent didn't make her insides turn to liquid. That just added to the guilt. "Meeting someone so important to you is an honor. Would you make the introductions?"

"Of course." She turned, and Baba Anya had already risen and was looking her most regal. "Baba Anya, may I present Ardsley Wooster? Ardsley, my godmother, the Countess Anastasia Leonova Dragomirov."

"Countess." Poor-student cover story or not, he had learned a courtly bow somewhere. "I'm honored to make your acquaintance."

"And I'm pleased to finally make yours." Baba Anya extended her hand gracefully for him to bow over. "Your Russian is excellent," she said, and then, switching to English, "but I think we can speak your language, as you'll be subjected to our food. A fair trade, yes?"

"I see where Melisande learned such excellent English, Countess." There was a faint undertone of relief at the linguistic switch. "And I'm sure the food will be excellent. I haven't much experience of Russian cuisine, but Melisande's assured me I'm going to love it."

"I hope you are, because there's plenty of it." Melisande gestured to the table, and was pleased to see his jaw drop at the array of foods. "See? We know how to care for guests."

"I can see that. How many guests were you planning to feed?" Ardsley looked overwhelmed, and Melisande slipped her arm through his and guided him to the table.

"This? This is just a simple spread." Baba Anya sniffed, but Melisande knew when her godmother was acting. Of course, when it came to food, she'd have been the same with any guest, spy or not. Understandably so; by Russian standards this was an embarrassingly paltry spread. "It's so hard to find the better things here, though we've managed to put together a little something. The caviar is Russian, of course, the French have never figured out how to manage that."

"Some tea first, though?" Melisande patted his arm reassuringly. "I even made sure we had cream and sugar." She wrinkled her nose. "If you insist."

"I do appreciate it," and she saw something strangely happy in his eyes, as if by thinking first of his wants she'd done something people rarely bothered to do. "I'm more than happy to try your food, but my dear, an Englishman's tea is sacred."

"You will have to drink it out of our glasses, I'm afraid." Baba Anya had moved back by her chair, so Melisande went to the samovar. She had to turn her back, but she could feel Ardsley's eyes follow her. She poured just enough of the dark concentrate so when she filled the glass from the hot-water urn, it made a tea the strength he preferred, with room for two lumps of sugar and just a splash of cream. She took it back to the table before filling her own glass. "Here you are, just the way you take it, though I don't know how."

"You don't know what you're missing." He took a sip, and smiled. "Perfect."

"See? I do pay attention, even if I don't see how you stomach it." Her hand trembled a bit and the kettle rattled as she poured a much darker mix for Baba Anya and finally a glass for herself, with a lump of sugar instead of jam (though she couldn't quite bring herself to contaminate it with cream.) "Now, of course, if this were a proper party we'd have vodka, but Baba Anya didn't think it would be ladylike for me to drink in front of you."

"Melisande Petrovna, that was also not ladylike." Baba Anya sipped her tea delicately.

"Perhaps not, but it was honest, and you must admit that's a refreshing quality in Paris." Ardsley might have missed his calling in the diplomatic corps, if that response was anything to go by. "Especially when one spends too much time around Sparks. They can be honest, certainly, but frequently not in good ways."

"You mean in the 'I'm sure those restraints will work perfectly next time, but you have to admit that was exciting' sense of honesty." Melisande took a sip–the sugar gave it a pleasant sweetness, but it lacked the depth that a good preserve had. "I don't have much occasion to work with the Gifted, but really, from everything you've said I don't feel too sorry."

"It's not so bad sometimes." He smiled, with just that little tinge of self-deprecation she'd gotten used to seeing, and then looked to Baba Anya. "I'm minion material, as I've been reminded often enough, but I've accepted that. In fact I'd have to say it's probably preferable to having the Gift. I'm not likely to go mad and decide to take over the city using an army of giant clanks made from antique laundry tubs and sausage-making implements."

Baba Anya smiled. "A relief. I do remember when Baron Balkabash, the Mad Moldovian, tried to march on Vienna with an army made from old flax-spinning wheels and sheep shears. I will admit, it was a very colorful army. Not effective, but decorative. It made for an attractive siege, at least."

"I never know when she's being serious," Melisande murmured, though she was fairly sure Baba Anya rarely made things like that up.

"Before your time, my dear, and yours, Mr. Wooster." Baba Anya smiled a bit. "Before quite a lot of things, actually." She set down her tea. "Now, please, help yourself to the food. We can talk once we've eaten." With a gracious wave, she gestured to the table. "Please."

"I hardly know where to start," Ardsley said, and Melisande covered an amused smile with her hand. "Do you feed every guest this much?"

"Only the special ones," Melisande said, hoping her voice was too low for Baba Anya to hear. "Start with the caviar," she said, in a louder voice. "Take a blini, and a bit of the sour cream, then put a little spoonful of the caviar on that. Trust me, it's wonderful."

"Fish eggs? I don't know . . . ." He followed her directions, though, and put the blini on his plate, along with other delicacies she pointed out. She kept her own plate light, partially out of manners and partially because her nerves wouldn't have let her eat much, anyway. Baba Anya barely took anything, but Melisande never saw her eat much as it was. Another skill she would hopefully someday pass along.

At table, she took a nibble of her own blini. "Go on, try it. I'm surprised, I'd think someone from a country so . . . connected to the sea wouldn't mind fish."

"Fish, yes," Ardsley said, "who doesn't like a kipper for breakfast, but this is . . . proto-fish. Still, they do say it's a delicacy . . . ." He took a bite, and raised his eyebrows. "I can see why."

Baba Anya smiled indulgently. "I find most men of culture appreciate Russian caviar. Something I learned long ago, and why I always keep a supply for special occasions. You may find this hard to believe, Mr. Wooster, but I once was as young and charming as Melisande here."

"I don't find that hard to believe at all, ma'am," Ardsley said. "Though, with all due respect, I find it hard to imagine anyone being quite as pretty."

Melisande wished she didn't blush so easily. "You're very charming, but such flattery."

"It's not flattery, just a statement of fact," he replied. "And having to tag along after Gil, believe me, I've acquired an ample frame of reference."

"Gil?" Baba Anya sounded perfectly polite and innocent, as if she hadn't read the name in reports and heard it from Melisande a dozen times or more.

Ardsley blinked, and Melisande saw that slight flicker when he's said something he apparently regretted. "My friend. I tutor him in the courses he's not inclined to take seriously otherwise, he tutors me in how those with vastly more disposable income than I possess spend it in wine, women and song. He's utterly at a loss that I've been devoting so much time to just one girl, but then he's only met your goddaughter once or twice."

"I'm hardly the sort to hold the attention of a Spark," Melisande said sincerely, "and I'm grateful for it," even more sincerely. "Besides, Katia's much more his type."

"Really." Baba Anya raised an eyebrow. "She hasn't mentioned that."

"Is she your goddaughter as well?" Ardsley said it innocently and after politely swallowing a bite of one of the stuffed eggs.

"Not officially, but I do know her father." Baba Anya didn't bat an eyelash. Melisande envied her cool. "I hadn't realized she'd found herself another gentleman friend."

"If it's any reassurance, my friend has a rather short attention span where women are concerned, and he's usually a gentleman." He took a polite sip of tea.

Melisande couldn't help herself. "Perhaps his manners will rub off on my cousin." Before Baba Anya could chide her again, she went on, "Has your friend said where he's going when he finishes at the University?"

Ardsley took a sip of tea before replying, as if that was exactly what he'd intended to do. Melisande, though, saw how his eyes lowered briefly, and knew that now as a tell–he was buying himself time. "He hasn't said anything yet. Gil doesn't speak much about his past, but he did grow up on Castle Wulfenbach, and between that and his never appearing to run short I gather whoever his people are, he's well cared for. He's made a few trips since he came to Paris–I went with him to Arabia, actually. That was an interesting time, to say the least. Such a strange, arid country. The desert's rather like the ocean, in a way. Empty, and always shifting. I'm more comfortable on an airship or in a boat than on a camel. Gil of course spent half the time thinking up more efficient meanss of crossing the desert, when he wasn't devising ways to sneak into harems." He blinked. "I do apologize, Countess, that was hardly appropriate."

"Quite all right," Baba Anya said. "I was young myself once, and familiar with young men. Even young Englishmen–I met a gentleman once in Vienna, a student much like yourself, and like many young men out looking for a little adventure before settling down, he had some stories to tell. I assume your friend Herr Holzfäller is simply doing the same. As, I presume, are you?"

Melisande coughed delicately, and Ardsley looked bemused for just a moment. Before she could think of something to repair the conversation, or at least minimize the embarrassment, Ardsley said, "If that was a very discrete way of asking whether I'm interested in Melisande simply to have a story about meeting a beautiful foreign girl in Paris and having a whirlwind romance, I assure you, those are not my intentions." He looked over at her and smiled, and she was certain she saw something sad in his expression.

Baba Anya, meanwhile, only narrowed her eyes, but the smile remained in place. "I am very glad to hear that. I'm quite fond of my goddaughter, and I would hate for her to be hurt."

A little niggling voice in the back of Melisande's mind added, _She'd hate for me to be hurt, except if duties require it. _The thought, and the sheer treason of it, startled her so much she nearly choked on her tea. Taking a quick, scalding sip, she tried to cover for it. "Baba Anya, I'm perfectly capable of looking out for myself. In any case, if I thought Ardsley were the dangerous sort, would I have brought him home to meet you?"

"Point taken." She detected just the faintest . . .discomfiture in her godmother's reply. Beside her, she felt Ardsley shift in his chair just a bit, his leg barely brushing her skirts. It might have been an accident, or an attempt at flirtation, but it felt as if he were straightening, that slight tensing she noticed whenever he was observing something intently. "I did not mean to impugn your honor, Mr. Wooster. I'm sure you understand I'm merely concerned for my goddaughter. You must admit, many young men at university have few scruples about innocent young ladies they might encounter. And those young ladies are not always the most adept judges of characters."

Melisande was surprised they couldn't hear her eyes rolling. Ardsley, though, was as unflappable as always. "I can assure you, Countess, I have nothing but the most honorable intentions where Melisande is concerned. I would never wish to see her hurt, by my own hand– or anyone else's. In fact I'd be very unkindly disposed towards anyone who wanted to harm her. Or tried."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Melisande kept her face under control, and she only saw a tiny tightening at the corner of Baba Anya's eyes, but for her that was as good as a numb stare. Ardsley's tone had not changed so much–cool, polite, but there was suddenly an edge, finely honed steel, that hadn't been there before. He wasn't speaking hypothetically–he had someone else in mind, someone specific. Who did he think was a threat? Not just a threat, to her specifically? Or was he fishing?

The very fact she wasn't sure which meant she was in far more trouble than she'd thought.

Baba Anya smiled, very slowly. "Then we have that in common, Mr. Wooster."

"I'm glad to hear it." Pleasant, utterly polite, not a trace of animosity, and still, not at all reassuring.

Melisande kept herself from forcing a laugh. It would only sounds obvious and awkward. "I'm quite fortunate to have so many people concerned for my welfare. Though I'm sure I can't see any cause for concern myself." Ardsley didn't say anything, but his hand casually dropped beneath the level of the table, and then it was pressing hers, where she'd been politely resting it in her lap. The tremor somewhere deep in her stomach became a shiver that ran through her whole body, and she laced her fingers through his. He tightened his grip in response and she felt absurdly reassured, even without knowing what it was he feared.

Baba Anya, once again, did not change her expression, but she did change the topic. "You were raised in the Glass City, Melisande has told me."

Ardsley relaxed, but he didn't release her hand and she was grateful. "Yes, I was raised by my aunt and lived there until I attended Oxford. I thought that was a culture shock until I came to Paris."

"The young Englishman I knew talked a great deal about the Glass City–her Majesty's palace, the clockwork ravens at the Tower, the floating gardens at Kew . . . he tried to describe the transition from the spires down to the lower levels below the water when you arrive by airship, how the light changes going from sky to sea, but I couldn't imagine." Baba Anya sounded so convincingly wistful even Melisande found herself believing her. "It's truly a shame your country is so difficult to enter, Mr. Wooster."

His hand tightened again and Melisande shivered in spite of herself. "Her Undying Majesty is understandably reluctant to allow casual visitors, given what could happen to a city underwater if the wrong . . . person were to visit. But for those with more serious intentions and a proper introduction, it isn't as difficult as one might think."

"Perhaps more difficult to leave, if the stories are true, yes?"

Melisande's whole body tensed in annoyance. She knew exactly what stories her godmother meant, and certainly, they were unnerving, especially to anyone who remembered or had heard stories of mind-controlled revenants shambling across Europe, mindlessly doing the bidding of the Other. "Baba Anya, now you're being _nekulturny_. Does Ardsley seem like a mindless robot?" Of course, one wouldn't allow a mindless revenant to act as an agent–one of the risks of live assets was the free will required to operate effectively.

Ardsley, meanwhile, had tensed a bit, for once she thought a truly honest, offended, reaction. "I assure you, Countess, we have no less freedom in England than anyone else in Europa, provided, of course, one obeys the law." He paused. "I dare say, more than some. I am told, in the Duchy, most of your large estates are still worked by serfs?"

Melisande had the distinctly odd feeling of being embarrassed by her country. Baba Anya, as well, seemed nonplused. "Many are. The Grand Duke's father was deeply concerned with their welfare, but of course there is always the matter of what becomes of serfs who no longer have an estate to serve."

"Oh, of course," and especially with his accent that was achingly polite. "I only meant being bound to a particular estate for one's entire life by accident of birth doesn't seem any more pleasant than living as regulated a life as we do in England. You have estates that require so many . . . workers. We have such limited land and resources, and such a perilous living situation, law and order simply has to be sacrosanct."

Melisande thought of the engravings she'd seen of the Glass City, the crystal-and-brass domes peeking out over the water, airship mooring posts at the top of spires with spiral stairs leading down into the city proper. Not only in her dossier she'd studied before coming to Paris, but in books from as early an age as she could remember–a lost city like Venice, sunk beneath the waves, but saved by their strange Undying Queen and living halfway between sea and land. "It must be so strange to live there. No forests, no snow in the winter time, no steppes or plains . . . ."

"We do have weather," Ardsley said, something soft and faraway in his voice. "Her Majesty sees to that. But no, nothing like they say you have in the Duchy. Certainly not palaces built of ice for winter fairs. That's something I'd like to see."

"I'm not sure you'd enjoy our winters," Melisande said. "Sometimes it's so cold in Petersburg you think your breath is going to freeze in your lungs, and the snowdrifts are higher than your head. But in the summertime, you can go to the forest, and pick mushrooms and wild strawberries. Uncle Oleg has a dacha that's on a beautiful lake, my family's gone there every summer I can remember. Katia and I used to play in the forest, tracking and hiding, and the one who could hide the best would get a special treat from Uncle. I was always better at hiding than she was, but even then Katia wasn't subtle." Only then did she see the look in Baba Anya's eyes and realize how much detail she had just spilled. Some spiteful urge, alien and unnerving and remarkably appealing, prevented her from stopping. "You might like Uncle Oleg, Ardsley. He's a little stern, but not so bad. And it isn't his fault Katia's spoiled. She just assumes since she's pretty everyone will treat her like a princess, and they usually do."

"I haven't spoken with her enough to make a judgement." He had definitely missed his calling as a diplomat. "But enough to say, if it isn't improper, that you're much the prettier, princess or not."

"Don't let Katia hear you say that," Melisande said, but she pressed his hand, traced her fingertip over his palm, and felt him shiver. "She doesn't take rejection well."

"I'll bear that in mind." He let go of her hand, but then she felt his knee pressing against hers. Utterly indecorous, yet she was grateful.

Baba Anya took the opening to steer the conversation back to safer territory. They chatted about Paris, the Louvre, whether or not the Opera Populaire had been the same since some madboy in the cellars had dropped another chandelier (seemed to be a near-monthly occurrence), whether the Master of Paris was really plotting against Baron Wulfenbach (who wasn't?) and were the rumors true and had Othar Trygvassen (_Gentleman Adventurer!_) really been seen driving off a horde of mutant mimmoths in the Ninth Arrondissement two weeks ago Sunday with nothing but his wits and a wedge of cheese? Ardsley was every inch the polite, charming young scholar they all knew he wasn't, at least not entirely, Baba Anya the gracious host rather than expert control officer , and Melisande found herself uncertain whether she was the trained seductress she was supposed to be or truly a giddy schoolgirl hoping her suitor made a favorable impression. Of course, the only truly unfavorable one he could make would be that he was so good a field agent he was onto them both and stringing them along for some purposes of his own or his spymasters'. He could have been a slob, a boor, had the cover of a rich idiot with no day job just like his friend Gil, and Baba Anya would have appeared to approve, Melisande would be expected to appear just as giddily in love.

She closed her eyes wearily as he and Baba Anya discussed the relative merits of French as the language of diplomacy considering most Parisians were anything but diplomatic, hoping neither noticed she had dropped out of the conversation. Just her luck, of course, that her target was not boorish or a slob or playing at being the imbecile. He was handsome and gracious and clever without being smug, protective of her and not even afraid to show it to the formidable Countess Dragomirov, meaning Melisande had no trouble at all convincing him she was in love. She was past the point, though, she could pretend to herself that she wasn't.

The cakes had been eaten and the coals under the samovar were turning gray when Ardsley, reluctantly, stood. "I'm afraid I really must go. Your hospitality is wonderful, and I will gladly admit that Melisande was right–a proper Russian tea is the equal of an English spread. Though I'll maintain my preference for English food, I'm afraid. National loyalty and all that."

The Countess rose with that age-belying grace. "We would hardly expect otherwise. Though you will give us another chance to change your mind?"

"I look forward to the invitation." The smile was polite, but as noncommittal as the reply. "Melisande, would it be improper of me to ask you to see me out-and perhaps to the corner?"

"Even if it were, I'd still say yes." She rose a bit more quickly than was proper, he noticed, and he also noticed she didn't seem to care. "Baba Anya, please excuse me."

"Of course." She smiled, but Ardsley still had the uncanny feeling of being scanned. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Wooster. It has been very . . . informative meeting you at last."

"Such an interesting way of putting it," he said. "I hope haven't offended."

"Not in the least. It is only . . . if you'll excuse my familiarity, you have made my goddaughter very happy these last weeks. I was anxious to meet the man who's captivated her, and now I have." Her smile was sweet, polite, and inscrutable.

Ardsley felt a gut-twisting sense of guilt–it might have been indigestion, but he doubted it. "I hope I've made a favorable impression," he said, trying to focus on the Countess and not on Melisande, because if he saw pleasure in her expression he wasn't sure he'd be able to hold his cover. "I know Melisande sets great store by your good opinion."

"Don't fear you've disappointed." She made a gracious, if shallow curtsey, and he bowed back without even thinking. "I hope we'll meet again."

"As do I, Countess." He couldn't avoid any longer and turned to Melisande. The quiet happiness in her eyes and the way she took his arm so quicky nearly undid him. She was either the consummate actress her godmother was, or she was honest, and he wasn't sure which would be more crushing. Countess Dragomirov hadn't given him any hints, but he knew she was a professional. If Melisande didn't, if she wasn't, they were using her . . . but what were the odds of that?

Outside, where he was fairly sure they were free of any listening ears, he stopped. "Melisande–"

"What did you mean?" Her pretty dark eyes were wide and intense, her hands pressed against his chest. "You weren't speaking generally before. You think I'm in some sort of danger. What were you talking about?"

Ardsley searched her face for any sign that she knew, that she was asking to find out how much he knew. Either she was good, or she was innocent. Careful. He had to be careful. "I think your cousin's friend Vanya is into something very dangerous. I know how Sparks are, and I don't want to see you hurt by it."

Something odd crossed her face, a strange expression that might have been indecision. "How do you know?"

He felt a twinge of disappointment (that was not the question he'd have expected from someone who knew nothing) but kept a straight face. "I found some drawings that he left in the optics lab. Some sort of clank, definitely a weapon. It looked like he was planning to use human skeletons as parts. There was also some sort of power-generating system he'd designed, and you have said he's been coming in smelling like the sewers . . . ."

There was something behind her eyes now. He could see her calculating, and then deciding. "I saw notes he did for some kind of generator–I think it's meant to be built underground. I don't . . . I'm not a Spark or any kind of mechanic. Do you think he could use something like that to help build clanks?"

It wasn't entirely what he'd expected, but his instincts said she was being honest. "He could. You don't know what he could be doing?"

Whether she knew it or not, she let the mask slip and he saw the calculation–and that she was genuinely just as lost as he was as far as Vanya's plans. "There's nothing, not that I know of. He barely ever seems to go to classes, so I don't think it's any sort of project for that."

"What I saw looked like weapons. Even here, that's not officially encouraged."

"Then it's something he's come up with for himself, and I don't know why or what it's for." She bit her lip and looked up, and he saw some of that mask again, but part of him (the gullible part?) thought the insecurity in her eyes was real. "But why do you think he'll hurt _me_?"

Ardsley hesitated. Professionalism warred with his heart, and declared a draw. "He's a Spark. When they get going everyone around them is in danger, intentionally or otherwise. I don't want to see you hurt."

"I thought that was my line." The soft, tender expression was so real, he desperately wanted to keep believing it. "And you spend far more time with Sparks than I do."

So much so, he decided. "Well, I don't want you hurt, either. That was all I meant." That, and a warning, if they were using her . . . . "I wanted to ask–can I see you tomorrow evening? Somewhere we can speak privately."

No one could blush or pale on command, no matter how trained, and her reaction made him wonder yet again as her cheeks turned a bright shade of rose. "Of course. Six o'clock?"

"Meet me outside my flat. There's something I'd like to give you, and I didn't bring it tonight." He thought of the present he (all right, in fairness, and Gil, very much Gil) had made, sitting in the little secretary in his garret, on top the two letters.

"I'll be there." Her lips were slightly parted and he couldn't help looking, knowing she anticipated a kiss, wanting so terribly to give in. And why not, no matter what? Why risk her realizing all wasn't as it had been? Ardsley raised a hand to her cheek, brushing a strand of hair back from her face, and bent down to her. She melted into the embrace, and for a moment he didn't care if it was real or not–it felt wonderful. Still, some part of his mind couldn't help but think about those two letters. One, bearing the winged-tower seal of Castle Wulfenbach, should have been cause for celebration–the pending success of his mission and everything he'd worked for. And, of course, if it was simply a test to draw him out as a spy, quite possibly his death warrant as well.

The other was a short dispatch from the home office, obviously sent in haste. The message inside warned him that Anastasia Leonova Dragomirov, whom he'd informed them he was to meet, was known to be the control officer for the Secret Police of the Duchy of Moscow's Paris bureau, and that her goddaughter, Melisande Petrovna Velyaminova (La Capere was her French father's name and not on her official Russian birth records) was in fact the niece of Oleg Feyodorvich Velyaminov, chief of the State Secret Police. Ekaterina Olegevena Velyaminova, his daughter, was an identified agent and it was likely Melisande was as well, though as yet they had no confirmation from agents within the Duchy, or idea what her mission might be. Lord M_ recommended Ardsley immediately terminate contact, and if he disregarded that instruction to proceed with extreme caution as the situation was almost certainly a trap.

With Melisande's arms around his neck, her body pressed full against him, and her mouth open under his as he pulled her closer, he had the feeling the trap was sprung long ago, and he was not entirely sure he wanted to escape.


	4. Chapter 4

Melisande slipped up to her room that night, avoiding everyone including Baba Anya. She knew she should have been debriefed, or at least gotten Baba Anya's impressions of Ardsley. Most importantly, did that odd edge to his conversation, both during their tea and on the street, mean that he had broken their cover and was now stringing her along? And why did he want to see her privately?

Instead she sat on her bed, the lamp turned down low, hoping anyone who came looking simply assumed she'd gone to bed. Which she had, strictly speaking, but there was little chance of sleep for the foreseeable future. Her nerves were frayed and it wasn't only because of the sudden uneasy feeling that Ardsley suspected something. If he did, it wasn't stopping him from kissing her so hungrily she'd had several very naughty thoughts indeed and had been a breath away from suggesting they find some place, any place, to be alone. It helped save her dignity in that respect that she had very few opportunities to speak, what with being kissed within an inch of her life. By the time they'd paused to catch their breath and her brain caught up with her racing pulse, Ardsley had made his excuses and gone, after seeing her back to the Silver Samovar's door. Now she was still trembling, trying to think clearly and not with the feelings she could no longer pretend were butterflies in her stomach.

If he'd broken her cover, she had only a few choices. Terminating contact was the first and best option. The memory of his mouth on hers, his hands crushing her against him, made it seem decidedly less appealing than it should have. Another choice was to try and openly subvert him. Admittedly her experience was limited but with Baba Anya's help, there was some faint chance he'd be willing to become a double agent. Though after tonight, she found that highly unlikely.

Then of course there was the permanent solution.

Beneath her bed, in a locked case, she had the tools of her trade she didn't especially ever want to use, but with which she was, like any other agent considered ready for the field, at her worst, reasonably adept. Knives for hand fighting and for throwing, a small pocket gun and a larger pistol that could be loaded with stun pellets or with more deadly ammunition, a dart gun that could, likewise, be used to stun or to kill, and a little pillbox with two glass capsules inside. Unlike the other weapons, the pills were meant for her, as a last resort. And in Paris, of course, it was not impossible to acquire other means of disposing of an unwanted problem. Poisons in particular were easy to come by, and given how close they'd become she had a multitude of choices for delivering them–

Melisande stopped herself with a violent shake of the head. No. Not ever. Not under any circumstances could she kill him. Not if it meant a one-way ride to Siberia on her return home. It would have to be one of the other two. Simply never see him, even if it meant leaving Paris suddenly, or to confess all and try and make a better offer than anything Albia had given thus far.

Or . . . that little traitor voice pointed out, there was a true third option. They had meant to play on his affection for her and the harsh reality that England, closed as it was, had a limited pool of marital possibilities and fresh blood was always welcome, to convince him to bring her to England, as wife or simple companion, whichever had seemed appropriate. Why not keep the plan, but . . . alter the terms? Simply . . . become the mask. Never give him any reason to believe the cover wasn't true, cut off her official contacts, and simply be his.

The idea was painfully tempting. Perhaps even telling him–after all, who would understand the life of a spy better than another spy? Defectors were rarely trusted, it was true, but long enough service, or simply agreement to live retired, could sometimes suffice. Married agents were rare, making them often the perfect covers.

All of which, of course, assumed he didn't despise her for lying.

Her stomach hurt, and it wasn't the food. It was probably going to hurt until tomorrow night–at least for once the excuse for skipping lecture would be legitimate. She ached for it just to be over, and knew she was not going to sleep at all. Not unless she went and ran around the entire arrondissement until she collapsed from sheer exhaustion.

Well, when in doubt, there was always vodka. A bit might take the edge off just enough she could get some sleep, and at least not have dark circles under her eyes for Ardsley the next day. Going to the door, she cracked it open and listened, half-expecting Baba Anya to be lurking just outside. Instead the narrow corridor was deserted, the gas lamps dimmed, and she stepped onto the landing quietly, hoping if everyone was asleep, it was very soundly. For a moment, she thought they were, and then she heard the voices. Katia, Vanya, and from the sound of things just coming in. Her stomach and sleeplessness forgotten, Melisande carefully eased down the first few steps, avoiding the one that creaked no matter where you stepped on it, and listened.

"I told you, it won't be ready by then." Vanya sounded more peeved than usual. "The clanks, maybe–"

"I still think it has to be now! Forget the Master noticing, that Brit of Melisande's is suspicious. He's been watching you, you know." Katia didn't sound petulant. That would have been normal. Instead, she sounded cold and collected, far more rational than Vanya ever did. "He's even been asking that Spark friend of his about clanks made from bones." Melisande's eyes widened but she kept herself from gasping.

"How do you know?" Vanya sounded even more peeved, and strangely calm for a Spark.

"That fool? Take him to one of the opium houses and he'll spill anything. I don't know why Melisande's boy is always tagging after him–he is, though. I can't see Gil without finding that . . . _spy_ half a minute behind. Never a moment's privacy. If I hadn't caught him the other night with his hand up my sweet little cousin's skirt when they were 'just saying goodnight' I'd seriously wonder about his tendencies."

Melisande remembered that particularly well. It had taken all the control she possessed not to utterly ruin her cover by kicking Katia through the nearest plate-glass window.

"Why would you want any privacy with this Gil in the first place? I know him from University, he's the worst kind of Gifted. Lazy, selfish, a complete lech–"

"But he _is_ amusing at times, and quite well-funded." Now Katia was taunting him. Strange, Melisande had known they were close, but she hadn't thought lovers, certainly not to the point of Katia rubbing her other conquests in his face. "A girl likes to be taken somewhere besides the catacombs, you know."

"When we're finished you can go wherever you like in Paris." The tremor in his voice was still powerful, even when she was only eavesdropping and was trained to recognize it to boot. "The fools at the University will dance to _my_ tune, and even the Master will not find me so easy to reckon with, either. I'll–"

"Show them all, yes." Katia seemed to know the right tone to soothe the savage madboy. "For the moment I'm more concerned with Melisande and her Englishman. He's nosy and there's something about her I don't like these days."

"You've never especially liked her anyway." Vanya was only stating a fact, though Melisande couldn't help thinking of the old saying that you never heard anything nice about yourself when eavesdropping. "You hate that she's better than you at covert operations, and you hate that your father selected her for the English mission."

"Bah!" Katia still sounded distressingly non-sulky. "Like I'd want her British bookworm. Or to be trapped in some fishtank island until my father saw fit to call me home, playing happy little housewife . . . but I don't think Melisande is playing any more."

"What do you mean?" Like most Sparks, Vanya could be a bit oblivious at times to anything outside his interests.

"I mean I think that mouse has gone and fallen in love with her target. If she hasn't betrayed the Duchy yet, she's well on her way to it. She's probably helping him figure out what it is you're doing. As if the squid wasn't bad enough-"

"That was an accident, if it hadn't gotten loose your Serpent would have been fine." There was nothing sulkier than a Spark being called on his past failures.

"That's not the point," and there was the petulance they all knew and didn't love. "If they figure out what's going on, one or the other of them is going to ruin everything"

"What do you intend for us to do about it?" Vanya sounded coldly competent, a sound Melisande did not like at all. "Kill him?"

Melisande's fists clenched.

"Him? Definitely. Her? Depends on how she takes that."

"Not well." Vanya's tone hadn't warmed any. "Your father might not view our killing her kindly. The Countess Dragomirov would certainly take exception."

"Unless they were convinced that she betrayed us all. Then she'd have to die." Katia's tone suggested she had been considering this for a while, rather than it being a spur of the moment idea. "We'd be doing them a favor."

"And I have wanted to test my newest design against live targets." Vanya simply sounded like any Spark who'd had an idea–dangerous. "Trained agents would be better subjects than first-year students from the university, even if they're more likely to be missed. They'd provide a challenge."

There was a pause. "We'll take them both, then?"

"You can follow her when she meets with him next."

"I can't imagine that will be long." Katia snorted. It wasn't attractive, no matter how pretty her face might be. "If you'd seen them the other night–really, I can't believe how long she's taken to bed him as it is. My father's mistake, sending a scared little virgin to seduce someone."

_That_ stung mostly because it was true. Katia would have been much quicker to wrap Ardsley around her finger, not to mention other body parts–yet Melisande still had the nagging feeling that was the wrong way to reach him. That the waiting was starting to drive her mad was just insult to injury.

"That's your sort of business, not mine. I'd suggest using C-gas, if you have it. Not very subtle but neither will have time to react."

_Not until now, we wouldn't_. C-gas wasn't subtle, to say the least. But it was fairly easy to screen out if you had time to shield your mouth and nose, or simple breath-holding (another thing she'd out-timed Katia with in training.) Ardsley likely had similar experience, and now he would have advance warning. Stun bullets might be easier to target, but that meant getting the drop on the target. Hard to do when they were expecting you.

"She'll go see him tomorrow, no doubt. I'll keep an eye open and follow. Possibly I'll even manage to catch them in flagrante." That laugh had a prurient sound that made Melisande grit her teeth. "If I can catch them off-guard I won't need anything as obvious as gas. A stun pellet would keep them out for a good hour at least."

"I'll have everything ready." Probably some of the scariest words a Spark could say. "We could just take her now, you know. You think he'd come to rescue her?"

There was just a long enough pause to make Melisande wished she had a weapon. There was an unlit candelabra on the table, meant for emergencies when the gas cut out, and she thought she'd be able to reach it if she had to. Plus, they would be coming up the stairs at her, so she would have the advantage of the high ground. Any commotion would also wake Baba Anya and the servants, too.

Katia seemed to take a while thinking of that. "Quite possibly. He seems like the type to fall for the damsel-in-distress gambit. But if she wakes up and makes any noise then we'll have Anya Leonova to deal with, too. Tomorrow will be better, when she leaves to meet him."

Melisande backed carefully up the steps again, silent as before. She was, of course, meeting Ardsley tomorrow. Even if she managed to lose Katia on the way, it would not be difficult for her to find his flat. She could tell Baba Anya, try to distract them, but Baba Anya was meticulous. She would need to investigate herself. Katia would undoubtedly stall, have some very convincing story about how Melisande had dreamed it or was simply trying to make Katia look bad, and by the time they found Vanya's secret project, wherever he'd hidden it in the warren of sewers and catacombs and death-trap abandoned quarries below the city, for Ardsley at least it might be too late. She had to warn him, but if she waited until their scheduled meeting the chances were well in Katia's favor.

In her room, she stripped off her nightdress, exchanging it for chemise, pantelettes, and corset, and pulled out the trunk beneath her bed, checking to make sure the trap on it was still set before disarming it and working the combination lock. Theoretically there was nothing inside anyone else who lived here didn't already have, but especially after what she'd just heard it never hurt to be cautious. Blades, strapped to wrists and one ankle, an ankle holster for the larger pistol loaded with stun pellets and little pistol at the small of her back loaded with kill shots, the collapsible baton up her sleeve, longer hand-fighting blade in a scabbard between her shoulder blades. Her corset was loose enough to let her move if she had to (she didn't know a female agent who ever really tightened their stays as much as was fashionable) and she opted for her split skirt, buttoning the panels into full legs. Not very ladylike, but far better for climbing.

The sensible thing to do would be to leave without any evidence at all. Any message could be intercepted by Katia and Vanya, but guilt meant she had to take the chance. She could not simply do this without giving Baba Anya some explanation, no matter how vague it had to be.

Melisande wrote the note in English–Katia might be able to read it, but Vanya would not, even if they did find it. It was not especially professional but she didn't have time for codes or cleverness. _Am pursuing matters on my own. Inside action forces my hand. If we disappear look to your own house and below it for the culprits._ Vague, but hopefully enough.

She didn't dare risk slipping the note under Baba Anya's door, and leaving it in plain sight upped the risk of Katia finding it. She scanned the books lined up on her desk's shelf, and smiled to herself. Passing over the volume of English sonnets and the geography texts (far too obvious), she carefully slipped the note, with just a corner showing, into a textbook of non-intuitive engineering.

Time was up. Melisande looked around the room, allowing herself a brief moment of sentiment. One way or another it was quite possible she'd never see the place again. Fortunately, she'd been prepared for that. Spies weren't supposed to be sentimental.

The small window in her room quietly overlooked the high-peaked roof of the house next door. Melisande slid the sash up–well-oiled, it made no telltale creaks or rattles. She eased herself onto the narrow ledge, balancing silently and sliding the window closed behind her. Pausing, she scanned for any open windows or missed observers taking a midnight stroll. The houses and street appeared as deserted as Paris could be. Taking a deep breath, she focused on her target, the sloping peak of the next roof, and leapt.


	5. Chapter 5

She ghosted along the back alleys, letting her way of moving as much as the dark clothes keep her as close to invisible as she could hope. Ardsley lived closer to the university, in a street full of older, somewhat ramshackle flats rented to students who either had limited funds or little concern for the creature comforts. Melisande had never been in his rooms (that would be highly improper and in any case, he had never asked) but she knew where they were, the garret of an apartment that looked as if a stiff breeze might take the roof off. On the surface, the worst of a bad building, but it had only one set of stairs going up, no balconies or large windows, and it would take a stealthier assassin than any she knew, herself included, to make it across the rickety slate roof without sounding like a herd of tap-dancing horses. An excellent choice, in fact, contributing to his cover and easily defensible.

There was no light coming from beneath the door, and no response to a gentle knock. He was certainly smart enough to have traps and tripwires, and she found two of them–the usual strip of near-invisible thread (points to him for running it hinge to hinge, rather than the more conventional horizontal position) and once she'd delicately cracked the lock, she spotted the fine wire hooked to the inner latch. She gently removed it with an unbent hairpin, and when she opened the door she saw it was connected to the pin on a small but nasty-looking shock grenade. Non-fatal, but whoever tripped it would have about two seconds to realize their mistake before being rendered temporarily blind, deaf, and depending on which model the British quartermasters issued, possibly stained blue. She reset the bobby trap after she closed the door, and looked around.

The room was fairly bare, particularly to someone accustomed to the Duchy's decorating taste–an iron-frame bed with threadbare but serviceable blankets, a chair and desk stacked with books in an order calculated to appear random and the sort of tools and metal flotsam even non-Gifted engineers tended to have scattered about (though she noticed a few thin metal sheets and a silver stylus she would have bet money were used for etching messages), a trunk that presumably held his clothes, a little stove with a battered copper teapot atop it and a frying pan hanging on a nail nearby under a shelf with a plate, a bowl, and (she had to laugh) a fine china teacup and saucer. There was a cabinet beneath, which held tea, sugar, and a tin of biscuits, and beside that another door. A quick look behind it told her that was the water closet, complete with a cast-iron bathing tub. She shut the door again, and went to the small window that let in the only outside light–she didn't dare touch the gas jets or he'd see the light whenever he came home.

Melisande stationed herself just to the side of the window, which was cracked open a notch, noting as she took her place the second tripwire running from the top latch. This one would, instead of setting off a small bomb, shatter a capsule containing two kinds of powder. Again, presumably nonlethal, but she wasn't about to find out if they would simply knock an intruder out, or cause them to hallucinate a wide variety of brightly-colored nightmares if combined. Instead, she watched out the window, and steeled herself to wait.

It might have been fifteen minutes, it might have been an hour, before she heard distant voices, raised in what sounded like drunken carousing. Carefully easing forward, she peered down and saw the pair coming down the street, arms flung over each other's shoulders–Ardsley, and Gil Holzfäller, and now she could hear they were singing a rather bawdy little tune about a wench of the Ice Kingdoms and how she kept a traveler warm. Somewhere across the narrow street a shutter slammed, and she heard a clattering sound like a metal pot being thrown. Gil and Ardsley's singing dissolved into laughter, which only grew louder as a voice shouted something highly uncomplimentary about both their parents in French. Peeking down, she saw them stopped in the circle of lamplight outside Ardsley's door.

"I say, Gil," and Ardsley's words were slurred more than she'd ever heard them. "I think this is where I live?"

Gil, whom she _had_ heard sound far more inebriated than even this, peered up at the house. "I believe you are correct. Ten points to the non-Gifted."

"Now, I protest–" and Ardsley staggered a bit as he pulled his arm from Gil's shoulder. "I may not be a Spark, but I am certainly gifted. I can keep up drinking with you, can't I?"

"It _is_ a celebration," Gil agreed with all the amiability of the happy drunk. "Though I'm shursprished, really, you aren't celebrating with that pretty little Russian bookworm. You are missing the perfect excushe for her to make a fuss over you."

"Melisande," and even in those tones hearing him say her name still caused a flutter, "introduced me to her godmother tonight, and we had tea. I would hardly be a gentleman if I asked her to leave and come carousing with me straight after."

"You really ought to be getting it in while you can," Gil said, shaking his head with dramatic sadness. "Shtill, I shuppose you're right, you Brits are always good at that mannersh thing . . . ."

"And you're good at the drinking thing. Sure you'll make it home? Need me to find a rickshaw? Or build one?"

"Hah! It would probably blow up." Gil swept his arm in some gesture that probably made sense in his inebriated brain. "Any case, the night is young. You may be ready to go home, _I_ am off in search of further entertainment of the sort which you seem to have sworn off for your lovely Moscow girl. So, I bid you," and he tried a grand bow that very nearly ended in a somersault, "very pleasant dreams."

"Good hunting to you," and Adsley turned, fumbling with the latch of the door. Opening it took as long as it took his staggering friend to round the corner, and another count of thirty after that. And then, Melisande once again felt an absurd surge of professional admiration as he shook off his intoxicated appearance the way a dog would shake water off its coat. He looked up and down the street with a coldly sober eye, and then he vanished from her line of sight as he entered the building. She took a deep breath against the sudden rush of adrenaline and pressed back into the corner, listening for the steps coming up the rickety wooden stairs. He wasn't trying to stay quiet, but then so far as she could tell he had no reason to think anyone was there. Outside the door now, the key scratched in the lock, and she saw the thin wire slipped through to deactivate the trap. He opened the door slowly, left-handed to leave his weapon hand free, but not with the full caution of someone uncertain if the room was empty. As he stepped inside, tall frame silhouetted by the hall lamps, she held her breath a heartbeat, then spoke.

"Ardsley."

To his credit he did not jump or step backwards, simply stopped in his tracks. She saw his weight shift to the balls of his feet, ready for action, as he identified the intruder. "Melisande! What are you doing here?" As if realizing that sounded rude, fair as it might be under the circumstances, he shook his head. "I mean, how did you get in here? More to the point, why?" He relaxed, or appeared to, but she noticed his right hand drifted close to his greatcoat pocket and she tensed in spite of herself.

She took one last steadying breath. "You were right. Katia and Vanya are going to try to kill us."

He froze again, and she could see that whatever he'd expected, that wasn't it. "How do you know, all of a sudden? And why now?"

"I overheard them tonight–they know I've been snooping, and that you have, too. As for why, in Vanya's case? He's a Spark. Whatever he's working on is ready for live tests. We'd be excellent lab rats, so that's what we'll be. Katia . . . ." This was not well-planned, she should have rehearsed what she was going to say better, he'd think she was mad. "Her excuse to my uncle and to Baba Anya will be that I was planning to betray my country to the British. That you had coopted me. That you . . . have done to me, what I was supposed to do to you." She paused, but when he didn't say anything, she continued, "Really? She's always been bitter and I'm a better agent than she is, or I thought I was. This is her stupid way of winning." Again, he made no reply, but instead lit the lamp on the small desk. "She would follow me tomorrow when I went to meet you and use a knockout gas or stun pellets, and take us . . . wherever Vanya's lab is. My . . . presumed betrayal is a convenient excuse." This was one pause too many and she couldn't help herself any longer. "Please, Ardsley, say something. Ask anything. Just . . . stop looking so calm!"

When he finally spoke he sounded as cool and unflappable as ever. "And what do they think you've betrayed?"

"My country, my mission." And all things considered, she was in fact doing a bang-up job of that now. "I had to come because . . . I don't want them to kill you. You had to know. Even if it meant I had to tell you everything. Who I am. How I lied to you. How I know who you are."

Ardsley smiled, but there was no humor in it. Sadness, a bit, and that was much worse than not smiling would have been. "And who are you? Who am I?" His tone was painfully gentle.

Her stomach was doing painful jackknives but she forced her voice to stay steady. "I only told you part of my name. My mother's family name is Velyaminova." She watched for any flicker of recognition, but his face was still impassive. He'd be the devil to play at cards. "My uncle is Oleg Feyodorovich Velyaminov, chief of State Secret Police. I am an officer of that agency. And I know you're not Ardsley Wooster, poor charity student, you're Ardsley Wooster, British Intelligence. My assignment in Paris was to seduce you and, one way or another, use you to infiltrate Her Majesty's espionage operations and establish a network in England. Ideally, starting with you as a double agent." The entire confession left her legs wobbling, a strange mix of giddy and drained, and she sank down onto the trunk, her hands resting on her lap. If he pulled a weapon now, she doubted she had the energy to resist.

He didn't. In fact he didn't say anything and when she looked up, he was still watching her with that quirked half-smile, and a strange knowing look in his eyes.

Something clicked. "You knew! How long have you known?" She felt an unreasoning flush of anger. At him or herself, she didn't know.

Ardsley turned, and lifted a panel on the desk. "Only a few days." He held up a scrap of paper. "Don't feel bad–you had me fooled for quite a while. I thought something was strange, but I only found out what when I told my superiors your godmother's name."

Of course. Of course, Anastasia Dragomirov would be known to England's spymasters. Stupid of her to have mentioned it in advance, but then hadn't some part of her thought she was truly bringing her suitor home for approval? "Foolish of us."

"A bit, yes. I half-expected an offer this evening, but I suppose you were having her feel me out?"

She nodded without looking up. "You wouldn't have turned, though. I think I knew that. Plan B was to get you to bring me to England without knowing. It's hard to get agents in, you know. If that didn't work my instructions were to disengage completely, and I'd be reassigned." She left out the other potential instruction, the one not unlike what Katia had in mind. He was a professional. He had to know that had been on the table. "Then, I heard Katia and Vanya tonight–I couldn't lead them to you and I had to warn you. I'm sorry, Ardsley, truly I am."

He sighed, and ran his hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled and her with the absurd urge to smooth it back. "It's a terrible cliche," he sighed, "but I suppose I have to ask anyway." Something in the professional facade and the wide blue eyes cracked, just a bit. "Was any of it true?"

Melisande thought for a moment she might pass out, but that would have been much too lucky. Somewhere she found the breath to say, "The only lie was that I never told you my real name and work. Everything else that I said, that I felt . . . I think I stopped only pretending to fall in love the very first night." She laughed, a raspy chuckle. "For all she's a horrible witch, Katia was right about that. She saw it when I wouldn't admit it. I love you, and I can't keep lying to you, and I won't let them kill you."

She waited for him to say something, anything, but his face was pale, and he had turned half away, one hand resting on the secretary desk, presumably for support. The silence was more than she could stand. "Tomorrow I'll lead Katia away from here and when she realizes I've made her either she'll kill me or I'll kill her. I'm really quite good, so hopefully it will be me. Then I can have the Master of Paris deal with Vanya and whatever he's building. Uncle will be furious and I'll probably wind up stationed in Vladivostok, if I'm lucky, but I don't think there's any alternative to that now, anyway. It might be best if you're well away by then." She stood, sheer force of will keeping her knees from buckling. "I'm so sorry, Ardsley. Please believe that." Damn it, she was going to cry. "I should go now."

She started for the door, her legs wobbling at the first steps. Ardsley was staring at some point in space, away from her, and she thought he was certainly in shock or too angry to speak.

As she tried to slip past, he caught her by the elbow, turning her to him. "Stay."

Melisande stared into his eyes, painfully close, and she did not see what she had been expecting. There was no anger or remorse, just a strange clarity. Then her eyes were closed and she was kissing him, or he was kissing her, either way, it didn't matter, all that mattered was no more interruptions or waiting or hiding. Her fingers tugged at the buttons of his waistcoat (there were far too many), his hands slid down her back, up under her jacket, as he kissed her neck, the hollow of her throat.

His fingers closed on the little pistol at the small of her back, at the same moment she found the hilt of the knife in his waistband. Ardsley tugged her gun free as she drew out the slender dagger he'd been carrying concealed. He held her weapon up between thumb and forefinger, drawing back just far enough to give her a raised-eyebrow look.

"Don't act so surprised," she said, dropping the knife on the floor. "As if that's the only thing you're carrying."

"I'm not, and it's not.." He set the pistol aside more carefully. "I was only wondering–exactly how many more weapons are you wearing?"

Melisande was giddy again, a wonderful sort of giddy. She managed to muster up what she hoped was a seductive smile. "Find them."

Ardsley's smile brought back all those flutterings deep in her stomach and lower, more so now that satisfaction was so near. His fingers were playing along the laces of her corset, and she knew that meant he was inches from finding the long knife running parallel to her spine. She shuddered and closed her eyes as he said in that authoritative tone, "Oh, I will."

He did.


	6. Chapter 6

The lamp was burning down to the dregs when Ardsley woke from a warm, pleasant half-sleep. He lay spooned against Melisande's back and could feel from her soft, even breathing that she at least was still out. Fair enough. She'd had far more to tire her that night than their very vigorous lovemaking (which would have been enough on its own, if he did say so himself.) Confession might be good for the soul, but it drained you in the process. Not to mention it could hardly have been a walk in the park hearing her own cousin plotting her demise. If she felt safe enough to sleep, curled in his arms, let her.

He couldn't help himself, though, and brushed the silky dark strands of her lovely hair (just as long and beautiful as he'd imagined) from her throat, leaving him clear to kiss his way from the nape to the pulse point at the hollow of her neck. He could feel her heartbeat speed up, and slid his other hand down her side, stroking the soft skin of her thigh until she sighed, rolling to face him and opening her eyes.

"It can't be morning already." She blinked at him, her coffee-dark eyes still vague with sleep, but she was smiling.

"Not proper morning, at least. And it's cold." He pressed closer even as he gave the weak excuse. "I should have lit the stove."

"I'm perfectly comfortable." She was stroking his back slowly, with a single fingertip, the most exquisite sensation he could ever recall feeling. He kissed her, loving how she seemed to mold to him, breath and body. When was the last time he'd been with a woman and it was like this? Especially in one particular . . .

"I confess, I'm a bit surprised," and he sat back. Melisande blinked, and he saw that faintly worried expression, quizzical and endearing. "I wouldn't have thought they'd send someone . . . inexperienced on a seduce and coopt mission."

Her face flushed pink, and she looked away. "Oh, I was taught the general theory, and ways to please a man." Ardsley very much wanted to write a thank-you note to those teachers. "But it was assumed I'd be more appealing to you if I were . . . unspoiled." Somehow she managed to sound wry and professional at the same time. Her brow furrowed. "I did all right, didn't I? You weren't disappointed?"

Ardsley grimaced. A strange thing to be offended by, that the woman he loved (a strange thing to admit, that he loved a spy for an enemy government and at the most inconvenient time possible to boot, but there it was) had never been with another man, but given the circumstances it smacked of sending out a sacrificial lamb. For all they'd known he might have been a brutal, selfish, love 'em and leave 'em cad who'd have used her and dropped her without a thought. Or worse. What sort of spymaster used lady agents like that, let alone his own flesh and blood?

He had to admit: a very effective one.

Still, that was now thoroughly beside the point. "Disappointed? Far from it. I was worried-I didn't hurt you, did I?" He'd known when she'd cried out in pain, not pleasure, but he'd thought he'd been gentle enough after he'd realized. And she had relaxed, and responded with what had seemed like genuine enthusiasm. Still . . . .

"No. Well . . . yes, but not for very long." She lowered her eyes demurely, no matter how ridiculous that was considering their position. "I hate to admit it, but my cousin was right–in my training, she did say when I asked that it was absolutely as wonderful as everyone claims. If anything she understated the case." Her smile took on a slightly wicked edge. "That, or you're just very, very good."

"Well, I know which answer I prefer." Even in the half-light of the dying lamp, her skin practically glowed, as if she'd spent too much time in the mineralogy department's radiant ore collection. "So, is that your opinion? I'm very, very good?"

"Hm." She reached up, tracing a finger down his cheek. "I do not believe I've collected enough data to make an informed determination."

"We can't have you guessing, then, can we?" There were other things they ought to have been worrying about, not least the fact a Spark and a spy were apparently planning to kill them, that he had days at most before he had to leave and go where she couldn't follow, that of course he couldn't entirely be sure that Melisande was telling the whole truth even now. He knew all of that, but as he kissed her again, her body arching up to his, arms tightening as the kisses became hungrier, needier, he couldn't think of any of it. For now, for once, he couldn't think at all. Though when she gasped and sighed and whispered "I love you" at the peak, he was aware enough to hear that she spoke English.

They had both slept, awoke, coupled again, slept again, and finally woken in the gray light of early dawn to a burnt-out lamp, a cold room, and no better idea what to do about the assassins looming over them.

Though they did at least have tea.

"I'm afraid there's no preserves or lemon," Ardsley said, filling the china cup when the tea had steeped. "I don't even have any place to keep cream fresh. If you'd even take it in a civilized fashion, that is." A bit of searching failed to turn up another cup or mug, but he did find a glass beaker he was reasonably sure he'd never used for anything toxic. That would do for him.

"Plain black will do perfectly." Melisande was sitting up in bed, her legs tucked under her and his threadbare sheets doing a happily-poor job concealing much of her form. "I'll need my wits today."

He paused mid-stir. "For what?"

She smiled sadly. "There is still Katia and Vanya to deal with. I don't think my plans in that regard have changed. Have they?"

He couldn't answer for a moment, sinking down on the foot of the bed. "I don't think that's really the best option. We can protect ourselves, now we know they're coming. I can protect you."

Melisande smiled into her teacup. "I'm not a hothouse flower, Ardsley. I can do quite a bit of protecting myself."

Nice to know, even though they weren't acting any more, he could still put his foot in his mouth. "That isn't what I meant. I just meant, you don't have to deal with them alone." He shifted so he was beside her, and slid his arm around her. "We have the advantage now. We know what they're planning."

"What they were planning." Melisande set aside her tea half-finished, and curled against his side. He found it suddenly rather hard to concentrate. "By now the whole household might know I'm gone. It won't take much to figure out where. Katia could find out where you live just by asking your friend Gil." In spite of himself, Ardsley flinched. "What?"

"Gil. I'd almost forgotten . . . ." Even now he stopped himself. That he couldn't risk spilling, not even now. "What we were celebrating last night, and what I wanted to see you about today." He stood up (reluctantly) and went to the desk. He'd hidden her gift in the same compartment where he'd kept the two letters, and he removed the one from Castle Wulfenbach. "There was something I wanted to give you, and something I need to tell you. Gift first, I suppose."

She took the scrap of velvet he'd used as wrapping and he noted how she weighed the parcel before unwrapping it. Then he had the much less professionally-minded pleasure of seeing her eyes widen as her lips made a little 'o'. "It's beautiful, Ardsley. Is it crystal?" She turned the glittering pendant over in her hands, fingering the fine gold fitting around the edge. The facets caught even the thin light coming in around the edges of the curtains and cast glittering lights around the room.

"Glass." He couldn't help grinning. "And it's not just a pendant. Open it."

"A locket?" She found the tiny clasp with a fingertip. "A glass locket wouldn't be very useful."

He smiled. "Trust me."

Melisande quirked an eyebrow, but worked the latch. Her gasp of surprise made every micro-thin cut from glass shards (and nearly losing an eye once Gil took over the fabrication) completely worth it. "What on Earth–how did you do it?"

"It's all in the faceting. A simple matter of angles of reflection and refraction–but you don't really want to hear all the boring details." From the outside, the way the light bounced made the locket appear transparent crystal. When opened, the internal compartments were as opaque as any locket's made of simple gold or silver.

She closed it, looked "through" it, then opened it again. "It's amazing–you made this?"

"Yes. Well, to be fair," and he grimaced admitting it, "I designed it, but I couldn't make the glass cuts work. Gil helped with that. I promise, no Sparkish modifications, though–it's not going to explode or sprout wings or anything like that. At least I'm fairly sure it won't."

She laughed. He tried to memorize the sound. "Will you put it on me?" She turned, pulling her hair forward and baring her neck. He took the velvet cord (a proper gold chain would have been stretching his expense account far enough to be suspicious, at least when he'd assumed he wouldn't break his cover before giving it to her) and tied it securely, so the locket rested in the little space between her collarbones. Then, as he was in the ideal position to take advantage, he did so, kissing the nape of her neck. Melisande sighed and leaned into him.

He smiled against her skin. "Now you can keep your secrets safe in plain sight."

She was quiet a moment. "This is a good-bye present, isn't it? You're leaving Paris. You're going away–back to England?"

It was Ardsley's turn to close his eyes. "Not to England." If he were going home, there would be no issue. He could bring her with him, know for certain she was out of reach of the Duchy's agents, that she was safe and with him. "The mission I was sent to Paris for has finally paid off." He handed her the letter from Castle Wulfenbach. "I am leaving, assuming we live through the week, of course."

Melisande unfolded the letter, and he could feel her start to tremble when she saw the winged-castle sigil. He had read it enough times to memorize it, and he knew which parts made her shake all the harder. "Laboratory Assistant for special projects . . . on Castle Wulfenbach? You're going into the Baron's service? _That's_ your mission? To infiltrate . . . ." The letter slipped from her fingers. Ardsley let it fall, instead holding her, kissing her bare shoulders, as she shuddered. "He'll kill you." It was barely a whisper. "He'll find out who you are, and he'll kill you."

"No. Sh, love," he murmured against her skin. "He's not going to kill me."

Melisande turned in his arms, grabbing his shoulders. "Ardsley, the Baron is very powerful and very intelligent and he's at his most dangerous aboard Castle Wulfenbach, that's the entire point. We've gotten agents aboard before and no matter who or how they're sent back with their heads in jars, not the kind where they can talk, the preserved-specimen kind! He'll find out who you are, he'll send your head back as a warning to England and chop the rest of you up for spare parts!" She was crying, or trying not to, and looked torn between anguish and embarrassment.

"Shh." He wished, desperately, that he could tell her everything, but even now that would take him beyond ill-advised and dangerously close to treason. "I'll be fine. This is what I came to Paris to accomplish. My only regret now is I have to leave you."

"We could go away." She didn't sound at all optimistic. "We could go somewhere far away, India, Peking, even, somewhere your people or mine would never find us. I'd go anywhere with you, only don't do this."

"You have to know what I'm going to say." He pulled her close. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, and he could feel her still trembling just a bit. "I'll come back. I can't promise when, but I will come back. It isn't what you think–I'm not saying it's not dangerous, but the Baron isn't my priority. He won't be the one I work for, I probably won't even see him that often. Besides, it's not as if they're sending me unprepared. I _have_ had some training in these sorts of things."

Melisande didn't pull away, and he did feel her relax a little. Not that _he_ was entirely relaxed, as he was still wearing only his shirt, and she was still barely covered by the sheet. "This isn't our governments sniping at each other, or what's left of Europa's noble houses playing political games. The Baron doesn't bother with games and subtleties and second chances. Look at our governments. Look at _us_. I'm here because it's safer for England and Moscow to stab at each other, and that's because we know deep down there's Wulfenbach's Europa between us, and since we won't go against him, there always will be."

"British Intelligence have more interests than you might think. Her Majesty has never been one to sit idly by and watch events in the outside world." He stroked her hair as he talked, twining his fingers through the soft waves, imprinting the feeling in his memory. "I'll be as careful as I can be, love." He paused. "I don't know how long I'll be gone. It's not a closed-ended mission. I'll have contact with home, of course, but as for going home . . . well, their employment contract's quite generous on that point, actually, not to mention the pay's very good, too . . . ." She didn't laugh as he'd hoped. "In any case, because of my cover identity I probably won't be seeing England again for a long time." She nodded against his chest, not looking up. "Will you wait for me?"

"Even if it means I'm waiting for a ghost." Now Melisande did look up, and he could see how much she was trying not to cry.

"Try and have a little faith. I _am_ very good at what I do." He smirked, suspecting that would irk her enough to forget that the odds favoring his safe return (forget the Baron, he'd be assisting in a Spark's lab and that rarely boded well for the minion's long-term physical health) were in fact relatively long. "And, of course, it'll all be a moot point if you dear cousin manages to kill us both."

"Well, there is that," and he wasn't sure if she meant that as a negative thing or not. "You're sure you don't want to just run away? I hear sub-Saharan Africa is lovely this time of year." But she now sounded less like she was going to weep, and more like she was going to laugh.

"Believe me, if anyone else could do this mission, I would gladly say let's take the first train for Vienna, change our names, open a rare-books shop and be very boring people until we die of old age." Ardsely let himself wonder, for a moment, what that was like, knowing you were coming home to someone who was waiting just for you every day. Knowing you were coming home, full stop. "But it's taken months, years, of planning and we've lost agents just to get to this point–if it's not me, we'll never have another chance like this."

"I know, I know," she sighed. "Well, I don't know _exactly_, but I understand. Just my luck . . . my whole mission was doomed to fail even before I went and fell in love with my target." Her eyes narrowed. "Even without my cousin and Vanya throwing a spanner in the works. I'm not just suggesting we run away for selfish reasons, you know."

Ardsley grimaced. "You're not acting as bait, and that's final. I am supposed to leave to meet one of the Baron's supply ships at Marseilles on Monday. That gives us five days. The simplest option might be for you to tell the Master of Paris, as you said. I can promise you asylum at the British Consulate, at the least until they've dealt with whatever Vanya has in mind."

"And risk an international incident when Baba Anya and Uncle Oleg find out where I am and what I've told everyone? Don't think Katia won't tell the Master of Paris everything about you out of sheer spite, even if Vanya might not think of it."

"And the Master will tell the Baron and that's the end of that. They _are_ friends. Or at least allies." Ardsley sighed. "All right. How about this: you are still not the bait. You are still going to the Consulate, and we let Vanya try whatever he has in mind, without our getting in the middle of it. The Master still deals with it and our hands stay clean."

"Except Katia finds you in the five days you have before you leave and kills you, ruining your mission and my life, because what makes you think I want to sit there in relative safety while you try and deal with her alone? Besides, then I'd just have to hunt her down for revenge and if you're dead I can't promise I'd be trying very hard to survive the experience, and then where does that leave us?"

He had to admit, her logic was compelling. "All right, then. What exactly do you suggest we do? Barricade the door here and wait for them to come?"

"It's defensible, anyway." She looked from the window to the door. "Shock grenade on the door, we could set that up with more of a hair trigger and use masks and ear protectors–you do have some?"

"Naturally. Would they come in the door?"

"There aren't a lot of options, which I'm sure you had in mind when you moved in here. The chimney's not big enough, there's only the one window–what is that you've got on it, anyway? I didn't look very closely last night."

"Oh, that? It's one of Q Branch's nicer devices for long-term residences." He stood up and she followed, wrapping the sheet absently around herself as she did. "It's designed so the agent can load it with whatever reactant they think is best. The glass and the tripwire are designed to blend in with the curtain rods–since you saw it that obviously needs work."

"In fairness, I came in through the door and I _am_ a trained agent," she pointed out. "I had plenty of time to look for traps." It was a good point, though he still made a mental note to bring it up in his next longform report. "So," she continued, "someone forces the window from outside, the wire here–" she pointed to the upper corner, "releases the ball bearing, which shatters the inner glass, combining the two powders. What do you have in here?"

"Since I'd mostly want to disable anyone who tried to come in and question them, it's non-lethal. But it does induce a localized reaction in the eyes–in most people, constant itching, burning, and tearing, and the best part is it's not water-soluble. If they try to wash it off, it actually discolors the skin, too."

"Fascinating! Though I'd think there's a fairly high risk of fatal anaphylaxis." She studied the mechanism in a way that made him think she was memorizing it.

"There is that problem," he admitted, "and I suppose I could go for a more conventional knockout gas, but that sometimes takes a bit too long to disperse. I didn't want to get hit with it myself if someone set the trap off. This, on the other hand, mostly clings to the person coming in the window, and by the time I arrive, they would probably be about ready to do anything to get it off."

Melisande nodded, absently biting her fingernail. "So, what is the anti-agent?"

Ardsley grinned. "Sorry. Trade secret." And then the absurdity of the conversation hit him, and he laughed. "I'm sorry," he said, as she stared at him as if he'd gone insane, "but you realize we're both practically naked, we have your insane cousin and her equally insane friend planning to kill us and for all we know on their way now, your cover is blown to pieces and your mission a failure, and I have less than a week before I have to leave on an assignment where all prior agents who've tried to infiltrate have died horribly, and we're discussing the finer points of _booby traps?"_

Melisande raised an eyebrow, obviously trying to maintain her composure, but he could see the muscles in her cheek twitching. "Well, we could always talk about the finer points of hiding a weapon on one's person, too."

"Given I've disarmed hit squads carrying fewer lethal devices than you had on last night, I think you already get full marks in that regard." A thought, half innuendo and half serious, occurred to him. "I did find them _all_, didn't I?"

"You did make a very thorough search," she said, and he was fairly sure the way the sheet slipped off one shoulder was not an accident, "but if you'd like to check again . . . ."

They were, as he had just pointed out, in a world of trouble, with a potentially-deadly mission looming, Melisande's handlers probably certain she'd switched sides, two would-be assassins tracking them, they could be dead within hours, and here he was, ready to get utterly distracted by a glimpse of bare skin.

Of course, they could be dead within hours . . . .

"I don't believe I've shown you the other reason I liked this flat," he said, solicitously taking her by the arm. "The stove is quite ingeniously designed to also heat the water pipes for the very nice bathtub. Care to take a look?"

"Hm. You know, I am rather sore and achy. A hot bath sounds delightful." Melisande let the sheet slip completely down her back, trailing on the floor, and Ardsley forced himself to concentrate on the water and the clever system for heating it for just a few moments more–just as long as it took, at least, to fill the tub.


	7. Chapter 7

Melisande watched down the street, not at all sure this was a good idea. In fairness to Ardsley, he was probably right–at the very least, they ought to know where the entrance to Vanya's underground laboratory was. Whether they decided to give that information to the Master of Paris, to Baba Anya, or to simply lie low and wait until Vanya unleashed whatever it was he was building, information was always important. As they knew, from the notes he'd found, the lab itself was likely underneath the same arrondissement where the Silver Samovar was, and they also knew Katia would be likely be looking for them, so staking out the streets nearby seemed like a reasonable plan.

Sitting out in plain sight at a café, having a leisurely late breakfast, was a bit more exposed than she really thought was wise.

"Easy, my dear." Ardsley reached across the table and took her hand, rather more exaggeratedly than was necessary, but then the gesture was also for the benefit of anyone paying attention, not just for her. "We'll see anyone coming well before they see us." That was for her ears only.

"Yes, my love," and it felt good not to be acting, to see his eyes brighten at the endearment. "Coffee makes me jittery." She took another sip anyway, then nibbled a macaroon. After all the exercise last night, she'd have thought she'd be more hungry, but even the sweet was more than her stomach wanted to address. Food just weighed you down if you had to run.

"As long as you can aim one of those little toys you're carrying if it becomes necessary, we'll be all right." He gave her an admiring glance as he said it, and she knew the admiration wasn't for her sartorial choices but for exactly how neatly those clothes were concealing her weapons. "They can't do a snatch and grab in broad daylight."

"Call me superstitious, but whenever someone brings 'can't' into it, I get very nervous." She took another sip of the creamy coffee. The cup rattled just a little as she set it back in the saucer.

"Well, relax. Try to look as if you're enjoying yourself." He was doing a reasonable approximation of that himself. "It's a beautiful morning, you're in Paris . . . ." He stroked the back of her hand. "And I hope the company is pleasant."

In spite of it all, she smiled. "The best." It was so hard to forget everything hanging over them, that even in the best-case scenario they had less than a week (unless she could talk him out of his mission) before an unavoidable separation. The day would have been much more pleasant without that, even with the potential for murder still present.

"Someday we should come back here," Ardsley said, sitting back (though he kept his hand resting over hers.) "Paris, I mean. Just to come to Paris, no university or . . . work, only cafes and museums and strolling down the boulevards . . . ."

"Sounds like a lovely dream." But maybe, someday, if they should all live so long . . . .

Ardsley straightened in his seat for an instant, before deliberately resuming his relaxed slouch. "Showtime. Coming towards the café, opposite side of the street."

Melisande brushed her hand across the table, sending a serviette floating to the ground. As she bent to retrieve it, she looked behind her, up the street, and blinked. Vanya and Katia were walking up the street on the opposite side from the café, looking like perfectly normal students out for a stroll. At least as normal as a Spark ever looked–Vanya was still lugging his notebooks, but Melisande was more interested in a few spots on Katia's clothing that didn't quite hang the way they should as she moved. Katia carried at least one pistol at the small of her back, one in an ankle holster that snagged her hem every other step, and she was walking with just a slightly wider stride than usual, which told Melisande her cousin was wearing the thigh holster she normally reserved for special occasions. For Katia, that was armed to the teeth. It was flattering, in a way.

She sat up, turning her back and forcing herself to keep her eyes on Ardsley. Not that it was normally a difficult thing to do. "We tail them?"

"Wait a minute." He pretended to fiddle with his coffee cup, and leaned forward as if wanting to have a more intimate conversation. "Let them go by. I'll get up and tail them. Wait five minutes and then follow. Unless they split up, then I'll take him, you follow your cousin."

"Assuming they don't come over to start a conversation." That seemed unlikely, but one never knew. "That would be a bit awkward."

Ardsley caressed her cheek, a gesture that both sent pleasant shivers down her spine and neatly obscured her face if Katia and Vayna happened to look their way. "They've stopped in front of the milliner's. Not looking this way yet."

Melisande leaned into his touch, fighting the ridiculous urge to purr. "If she goes in, they're separating for now. I can't imagine Vanya shopping for hats, and I wouldn't put it past Katia to do it even now. Especially if she told Baba Anya she would go look for me, assuming they know I've gone."

"Such lovely family you have." He sat back just a little, and she sighed, but he kept his hand over hers, at least. "Holidays must be a treat."

"You should see my uncle's idea of an Easter-egg hunt." Mention of her family caused a minor lurch. Would she ever see her parents again? Undercover missions ended, committing high treason meant never going back. Spilling everything to Ardsley certainly counted.

Depending on what Vanya was up to, killing him and Katia might still be a gray area.

"She's gone into the shop. He's walking on up the street. I don't think they saw us." He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss on her palm. "I'm on him. Stay with her."

"Then what?"

Ardsley stood up. "Hopefully we'll meet in the same place. And we'll have the drop on them."

Melisande caught his wrist. "Be careful."

He grinned, and it reminded her oddly of Gil. "You, too. Remember, I'm just an enemy agent. With you, it's personal." He turned, shifting his gait and posture to a casual saunter, and set off up the street after Vanya.

Melisande took a deep breath, and began a mental countdown. She gave Ardsley and Vanya two minutes, using the time to finish a macaroon and the rest of her coffee. Then, forcing herself to move casually, as close to normally as possible, she crossed the street and pretended to admire the hats in the milliner's window. It looked as if broad-brimmed touring hats were back in this season. What she couldn't see was Katia anywhere at the counters within. It was possible she was hidden behind one of the displays, blocked from Melisande's line of sight. This meant she'd have to go in, or keep loitering in the hopes Katia came out.

She gave loitering a try for five minutes or so, until she saw a pair of Serpents round the corner. It was likely just a routine patrol, but the Master's crack enforcers made anyone nervous, and she was not interested in attracting their attention any day, let alone now. Taking a deep breath, she let her shoulders relax, put on a pleasant smile, and went into the shop.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle," said the shopgirl behind the counter, bobbing a curtsey as she spoke, "may I help you?"

Melisande smiled vaguely, scanning the shop as if surveying the merchandise. She appeared to be the only customer. "I'm sorry, I thought my friend had come in here. Blonde, wearing a green walking suit? I could have sworn I saw her."

"Ah–I do not think so, Mademoiselle." But as she said it, the girl's eyes shifted nervously towards a curtained door at the back of the shop.

"Perhaps I was mistaken." A back door? Or was Katia hiding in a stock room? She flicked her right wrist and felt the hilt of the throwing knife drop into her palm. "I'll browse a bit. Maybe she'll come back." Pretending to be interested in a display of veiled riding hats, she moved casually towards the back of the store. The shopgirl, she noticed, was fidgeting with a length of ribbon, folding into a rosette and then unrolling it again, repeating the process. Her browsing took her almost to the curtained door.

She saw the movement out of the corner of her eye from the front of the shop, behind the counter, and she had just enough time to realize she'd been tricked when the stun pellet hit. Without any warning, there was no time for resisting the drug, and as her vision turned gray the last thing she heard was Katia's voice, saying "Remember what I said would happen if you breathe a word. This is Serpent business," and the shopgirl sobbing acquiescence. _Of course, she had the dead Serpent's badge, knew their procedures well enough to fool ordinary Parisians . . . ._ Melisande had a fleeting moment to feel like a complete fool. Then gray turned to black and she knew nothing more.


	8. Chapter 8

Ardsley blinked, wondering how on Earth his head could hurt nearly this much after sleep–and then he realized he didn't remember falling asleep, that he hadn't fallen asleep, that he'd followed Vanya down an alley where the Spark had disappeared, had stopped to investigate the sewer grate sitting ajar, had felt the jab of a dart hitting the back of his neck . . .and now he was here.

The throbbing in his head was, on reflection, secondary to the pain in his arms, which wasn't surprising considering those were yanked up behind him and his wrists were locked together in some sort of restraints. A moment of assessment told him his ankles were shackled as well. His vision was still blurred, an aftereffect of the stun drugs, but between the musty, damp-stone smell, the dim light, and the sound of flowing water not quite drowning out the hum of generators, he was somewhere underground. Carefully, he gave the restraints a tentative jerk.

"Don't!"

He heard Melisande's warning a half-second too late and the pain hit. Shocks around his wrists, down his arms, up his legs, that stopped after what felt like an hour but was mercifully only a few seconds. Shaking his head, he (very carefully) craned his neck to see where her voice had come from.

Unfortunately, she didn't appear to be in any better condition than he was. They were both shackled to a metal rack, and now that his vision was improving he could see where the system connected to a larger gantry that seemed to take up most of the cavernous space they were in. An abandoned quarry, he realized, noting the cuts in the walls and the higher ceiling than your average sewer, and someone had made a great deal of additions. The cascading series of sluice gates were the source of the water noise, guiding the underground stream into tighter and tighter channels until it was flowing fast enough to power an enormous generator. Besides the bar they were chained to, he could see that the unit was also powering a control panel, and several chambers lining the sides of the quarry. Something in those chambers was blinking, a hard, crystalline red light.

That seldom boded well.

"Shock cuffs," Melisande said, and the exhaustion in her voice was oddly invigorating–what had they done to her while he was unconscious? "Harmless if you don't move, very . . . discouraging if you do. And they get worse the more you struggle. Fight hard enough and theoretically they can kill you."

"Great." He made a note not to test them again, at least not for the moment. "Are you all right?"

"All things considered." She had that wry note to her voice again. Ardsley turned, very carefully, to look at her, and nearly shocked himself again. Only the memory of the pain kept him from trying to yank himself free. Melisande's hair was disheveled and her clothes torn, as if she'd been rolled down several flights of stairs, which would have also explained the dark smears on her clothes and on her face. A closer look, as best he could manage, and he realized some of the dark stains on her face were not dirt, and the rage was almost enough to overcome fear of another shock.

"Ah, good. You're both awake."

Some time since he'd seen them on the street, Katia had changed into a highly practical jacket and trousers, much more suited to a Spark's lab than her fashionable dresses. He wondered how long she'd rehearsed the hip-swaying walk down the metal stairs from the control platform. Under other circumstances, he might be impressed, mesmerized even, but given the circumstances he couldn't even muster up grudging admiration. Instead, he paid more attention to the gun she wore on her belt–he recognized it as the larger of the two he'd taken off Melisande the night before, the one he'd found in her ankle holster when he'd rolled her stockings down . . . he shook the memory off, keeping it for later. Was it still the night before? How long had they been out? He saw their other weapons–Melisande's small pistol, his knife and hers–tossed beside the stairs in a careless pile.

"Of course my cousin's been awake for a while." Katia stopped in front of Melisande, smiling sweetly. "I simply couldn't wait for the drugs to wear off so we could have a chat. I wanted to hear if her night out was worth all the stalling. If you were as wonderful as she was obviously expecting." Melisande glared, but Katia casually raised her hand, and she flinched in a way that just lengthened the list of things Ardsley was going to do to Ekaterina Velyaminova just as soon as he got loose. "Personally I thought sending her after you doomed the whole thing from the start," she said, turning to Ardsley. "I can't imagine having to deflower a trembling little virgin was much fun. Now, I, on the other hand, already know how to show a gentleman a good time." She was so close to his face, he could feel her breath on his skin. "We could have had a lot of fun."

"Why don't you take these shackles off, and we'll see how much fun you have?" He didn't actually expect her to take him up on that, but it was always worth a try.

"Wouldn't you like that?" She stroked the gun she was wearing. "Melisande was certainly wearing enough weapons. I can only assume she had them on last night. Did you enjoy taking them off her?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Melisande had found enough energy for a snide retort, at least. "Honestly, Katia, you keep obsessing over my decisions about sex. I'm starting to think you're jealous–of Ardsley."

Katia smiled, and there was something very inhuman about it. Then she slapped Melisande–flat-handed but hard enough Melisande rocked against the stun cuffs and screamed as the electrical charges lanced through her.

"Stay away from her!" It was an empty threat, but it came out without his thinking about it. Beside him Melisande sagged against her cuffs and he heard a sound that might have been a sob.

"Maybe she wasn't so bad after all," Katia said, stepping back and considering them both. "That, or you're just as much of a useless romantic as she is. And our dossier on you said you were such a professional. So disappointing."

"Katia!" Vanya's voice came from the control panel, and Ardsley craned his neck as far as he dared to look. The Russian Spark was dressed in full Sparkish work kit, white lab coat, rubber boots and goggles to top it all off. He was standing beside a panel of switches and gears, his hand on one ominously red lever. "Stop wasting time taunting them. You already might have broken her too much for my results to be any use–I need him intact at least if I want a useful baseline on the clanks."

"You have no sense of fun, Vanya, none at all." Katia twirled the gun around her finger by the trigger guard, a disconcerting move. "And she's not hurt _that _badly, are you, cousin? Nothing that would stop her from facing a few battle clanks, eh?"

"If you keep wasting our time with your childish taunting, we'll all be dead of old age before we find out." Vanya pulled the lever, and something somewhere started a low hum that could be heard and felt through the stones beneath their feet. "First units coming on line."

Somewhere in the side tunnels, Ardsley heard a clatter that was both metallic and strangely wooden at the same time. A glass pipe arching from the machine behind Vanya began to fill with a greenish-yellow fluid.

"You and your clanks," Katia muttered. "And I haven't broken her. Just bruised her a bit, right, cousin? Probably nothing worse than your English 'gentleman' here did to you last night, eh? Did it hurt? Did you scream?" Melisande hissed something in Russian too low for Ardsley to hear, but from the way Katia's lip twisted it wasn't complimentary. "You screamed for me just now."

"Leave her alone!" He had to fight the instinct to strain against the cuffs. "You want to fight someone, try me, if you think you're so good."

"Hm." She actually seemed to ponder that for a moment. "No, I don't think that would be any fun. Tell me something, Ardsley Wooster, British Intelligence–were you angry with my little cousin when you found out what a liar she was? Or did that just make it easier to take advantage of her?" Casually, she reached up and fiddled with something above Melisande's wrists, and suddenly her restraints came loose. From the way she collapsed to the ground, practically boneless and unresisting, Vanya had not been exaggerating too much. "Or do you actually have . . . _feelings_ for her?"

"Feelings, there's a concept you've never grasped." Melisande pushed herself up to her knees.

Katia looked far, far too pleased with that. "That's because I'm a professional." She stopped twirling the gun. "Apparently, you two are not."

She pointed dead center at Melisande's chest and fired.

Ardsley vaguely realized he screamed, and then the pain hit as he lurched against the cuffs which held, tightened even, against his weight. But he didn't care, didn't care about anything except that Melisande had crumpled bonelessly back and sideways, that she wasn't moving, that he couldn't get to her, couldn't get to Katia to kill her with his bare hands . . . .

The shocks stopped and he hung against the restraints, not caring if they started again or not. Melisande lay with one arm outstretched, eyes closed, so pale and still. A blank, cold, nothing settled over him, hardening in the pit of his stomach, numbing the pain in his overstretched limbs. "Now you'd better kill me," he said, wondering how his voice could be so level, when the rest of him was so utterly shattered. "Because if you don't, you're going to die. And not quickly."

"Oh, please." Katia nudged her cousin's body with the toe of her boot. "What did you expect, anyway? Even if we let you live, she's a traitor. She had to die."

There was a clatter of boots on metal as Vanya came down the stairs from the gantry. "Katia, you fool! I said she was broken, I didn't say completely useless! Now all we have is him and he won't be in any mental state to make an effective test subject!"

"You and your tests!" Katia turned on him, and while she was distracted Ardsley reached up, feeling around the cuffs with his fingertips. Somewhere there had to be a wire feeding the current to the restraints . . . . "Now he's angry. That means he'll fight harder."

"That means he'll be more concerned with killing us than surviving the clanks, you stupid cow!" There was a louder thumping from within the tunnel and the pulse of the machines changed. "Damn! That's the second unit and I need to switch the gyros over–never work with a woman, I should know this!" He bolted for the platform, stepping on the hem of Melisande's skirt as went by her prone form.

Katia sighed. "Sparks. Impossible people. But they do make useful toys, don't they?" The rumbling from the tunnel was getting louder, and when Ardsley bothered to look he saw the red lights again, only now they were moving. "As you're about to find out."

"Least of my worries, really." His finger touched a wire connection, and the shock ran straight down his arm. The pain sent him reeling again, but he was almost numb to it by now. Yes, he was probably about to die, especially if he couldn't get loose, but he was not going out without taking Katia and Vanya with him. In fact, if his lifeless body turned up in the Seine and he'd failed there was a good chance Gil could zap him back, so even dying wouldn't be able to prevent his revenge. Yes, one way or another, he would have vengeance . . . but as he still wouldn't have Melisande, that seemed strangely anticlimactic.

"The more you fight those, the worse the pain gets," Katia observed, almost academically. "Besides, Vanya will release you when his new toys are close enough. I'll be well out of the way by then, of course. I'm thinking you'll be able to take down . . . maybe one, before they kill you. I suppose it depends on whether you've lost the will to fight."

"Not a problem." He got his fingernail beneath the connector again. He might be able break the circuit. "Believe me, Ekaterina Olegevna," and he spat her name, "the will to fight is the only thing I'm not lacking at the moment."

"Hm." She was twirling the gun, that damned gun, again. "You know, I'm starting to think you might be right. That's as far as I've ever seen anyone get, trying to pick those cuffs." She strolled closer, still with that hip-swaying walk, and kicked his ankle hard enough to activate the electrical shocks again. "I suppose I could just shoot you in the kneecap," she said over the scream he couldn't help, "but this way's much more fun, isn't it?"

Ardsley tried to catch his breath enough to say something cutting, but even the muscles necessary to breathe hurt. Besides, she was more right than he wanted to admit. What chance did he have, anyway? What was the point? His mission, yes, that would fail, but did it really matter? There would be no one waiting for him, hoping for success for his sake, not for queen and country's. What was the point, anyway?

Oh, right. Revenge.

"I can think of a better way to have fun."

Ardsley wondered if that last shock had been lethal and he was dead (though he'd have expected there to be less agonizing pain in the afterlife.) Because that voice . . . he could not be hearing that voice. He looked up.

Katia started to turn around and staggered to her knees as a solid kick connected with her rib cage. "You know what your weakness has always been, cousin?" Melisande said, following up the kick with a leg sweep that scuttled Katia's attempt get up. "You're so predictable."

Ardsley knew he could not be seeing what he was seeing. Melisande, looking a little wobbly but otherwise none the worse for wear, backed off as Katia stumbled to her feet. Katia brought up the large pistol and fired, but Melisande easily dodged the shot. She reached the pile of weapons by the steps and grabbed the small pistol she'd been wearing on her back. Katia was bringing her weapon back up but Melisande just grinned and aimed. And fired.

"_That_ one," she said, as Katia staggered, dropping her weapon and staring down blankly at the spreading dark stain on her coat, "had the stun pellets. _This _one," and she fired again, aiming slightly lower, "has the kill rounds."

Katia looked up, hand pressed ineffectually over the second wound, and her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Melisande smiled sweetly, stepping in close. "It was no surprise which one you grabbed," she said, and gave Katia a sharp push. Her cousin tottered backwards and fell into the channel of water. From the lifeless way her arms and legs flopped, she was dead before impact or so close as for it not to matter. Melisande looked down on her in the water. "You never learned: bigger is not always better."

Ardsley fought the absurd urge to laugh, but he couldn't help the near-hysteria. Alive, she was alive, and looking at him with a wild, triumphant smile. Then she turned abruptly, the gun coming back up to aim at the control platform. "Vanya! Turn off the power to his restraints!" Above on the gantry, the Spark hesitated, visibly jarred out of the madness place, his hands hovering over a set of switches. "Vanya!" Melisande's voice cracked like a whip, far more intimidating than anything Katia had managed. "Did you ever attend our interrogation training?" From his expression, he had. "Then you know that if you overload the circuit and kill him, I can torture you for weeks before I finally let you die! Don't make Katia's mistake and think I won't! Now _let him go!_"

Vanya paused just an instant longer, then flipped a series of switches. Ardsley felt a brief vibration and then the cuffs on his wrists and ankles opened. He tried to stop the undignified fall forward, but the blood rushing back to his strained limbs was more than they could take and he staggered to his hands and knees. But Melisande was kneeling beside him now, helping him upright, and he'd have willingly taken ten times the pain so long as that was true.

"I thought you were dead." He cupped her face in his hands, stroked her hair, drank in her living, breathing features like a man dying of thirst would gulp water. "I thought I'd lost you." She didn't bother replying aloud, and kissed him instead, the sweetest kiss of his entire life.

A huge crash from the control platform drew both their attention. Vanya had thrown a third lever and the fluid in the glass pipes was now glowing a very disturbing radiant shade of green. The noise in the tunnels was now almost loud enough to drown out the roar of the dynamos. Vanya laughed, and Ardsley felt a chill down his spine in spite of the giddiness. "You might have bought yourself a few more minutes, but now you have to face my creations! Nothing can stop them! Nothing will stop me now!"

Melisande tugged sharply at his arm and he turned. "Oh, dear."

The source of the noise and lights in the tunnel had revealed itself. Melisande's expression mirrored his own, he was sure, though he didn't think his eyes could open quite that wide. "That can't be good," she said, with an impressive degree of calm.

The things coming out of the tunnel might be called clanks, in a generous use of the term. They had the requisite metal joints and integrated weapons most battle clanks featured. But the 'faces' were clearly pieced together from human skulls with those red crystals where the eyes had once been, on some the hands and feet were likewise made from once-living bone, and at their cores, instead of the more traditional power units, there were twisted masses of copper and glass 'intestines', and he could see the glass in them pulsing with the same radiant fluid that was flowing in the pipes above. The strange mechanical/organic mixture reflected in their movements–not quite the eerie fluidity of a well-made construct, not the mechanical lurch of a standard clank, but some chimaera creature halfway between.

"Any idea what that green liquid is?" Melisande pressed close to him, keeping her gun hand free.

He had a few, but none were very reassuring. "Aldinic ichor, I think. He's running the fluid through a charger, and it's powering a sort of . . . battery, for lack of a better word, in each clank. Only that looks like he's rigged it to living, or I suppose ex-living tissue and is cycling the ichor through the entire frame."

The first row of the chimaera clanks stopped, turned, and leveled their weapons at Ardsley and Melisande. Now that he had a (much too clear) look at them, he could see most weren't guns, but bladed. Or chain-bladed. Or crushing. Or what appeared to be grenades.

Not good.

Above them on the platform, Vanya was still cackling like a hyena. "See? All the strength of a construct with the implacability of a clank! And this is only the vanguard of my army! From this command station, I will send a brigade of my creations up into every part of Paris! Citizens will flee in terror, the Master will bow before me, and I will destroy those fools at the University who laughed at my ideas!"

"Do they all have to sound like that when they get going?" Melisande said, sotto voce, trying to keep one eye on the chimaeras and one eye on Vanya as she spoke.

Ardsley continued to study the array of pipes and cables running too and from the control platform. "I don't think they can help themselves. Did you catch the part he probably shouldn't have told us?"

"That he's running his little army from that command platform?" Oh, she was as good as he'd thought and better. "So if we take that out, his toys fall apart?"

"Theoretically. That, or they run riot. If this is all he's brought on-line, destroying the command controls would cut off any others from being activated and would either shut these down or leave them acting on their own until they run out of Aldinic ichor."

"Would you be able to shut down the command platform?"

"If I can get to it." He took a step, and the chimeras, as a unit, swung their weapons to cover him. "What are you going to do?"

"Well, I don't know anything about power generators and control systems," Melisande said, raising her weapon. "But target shooting, I can do. You think those red crystals are important?"

"That, and the glass in their joints and abdomens." He looked at the array of weapons pointed at them. "Just . . . be careful. I don't think I can stand losing you twice in one day."

"Look out for Vanya," she replied, but she risked a soft look at him. "He might be a Spark but he's not totally defenseless. I'll give you as much cover as I can. Just don't get killed either, all right? I don't think I could come up with a good enough story to keep your cover if I have to ask Gil to zap you back."

In spite of everything, Ardsley had to smile. "I love you."

"I love you, too." She looked at him with such undisguised adoration he could in fact have died quite happy in that instant. "Now get ready and I'll give you covering fire, and maybe we both get out of this alive."

Considering the situation, that was quite possibly the most romantic thing he'd ever heard.


	9. Chapter 9

Melisande wondered how many shots she had left. Two had done for Katia, the magazine carried fifteen . . . not enough for the number of chimaeras staring her down. The gun Katia had dropped carried only stun pellets, without which she wouldn't be alive but which did her very little good now. Her knees wobbled, and she ruthlessly crushed the adrenaline rush. Even with those being stun pellets, if Katia hadn't decided to wake her up early from the first dose with the anti-agent for a bit of recreational torture she would still be unconscious and Ardsley might be dead. Taking two doses of the sleeper agent in quick succession, combined with the side effects of the anti-agent, and she was going to have a terrible headache tomorrow. Of course, as the alternative was being dead tomorrow she couldn't really complain about a headache.

She could feel Ardsley brace himself and she shook off the wool-gathering. They had to move before the chimaeras decided to make a preemptive strike. "Go!" she hissed and to his credit he simply went, bolting for the stairs. As the first rank of chimaeras swung their weapons Melisande drew a bead on the closest to the platform and fired. Her shot struck the neck, lower than she'd been aiming, and she saw a spray of glass shards and green fluid. The creature staggered, its weapon arm, tipped by some sort of vibrating blade, swung in a wild shower of sparks as it stumbled into its nearest comrade, sending both tumbling into the canal. The water crackled and steamed with the electrical discharge as the chimaeras twitched, spasmed, and went still. Two down, at least.

The four remaining in the front rank turned, swinging their weapons to bear on her. Melisande's momentary flush of triumph evaporated as the first rank dropped to one knee, while a second row moved up behind them, their weapons turning to track Ardsley. She heard the click and whirr of their various weapons charging or cocking, and had time to squeeze off one shot before the first grenade came flying and she had to dive for cover.

Ardsley heard the explosion behind him and leapt for the steps to the gantry, forcing himself not to look back. If either of them failed, chances were neither of them would get out of here. He had to trust that Melisande could take care of herself. He had a mad Spark (if that wasn't redundant) to take care of. Vanya was still cackling like the lunatic he undoubtedly was, and the unhappily familiar sound of electrical arcing told him the equipment above had all the usual mad-science bells and whistles, including pointless open circuits and it would probably be a matter of guessing which gears, levers and dials actually did something and which were on the controls simply because the parts had been there and what was an evil superweapon without a few extra widgets?

A rain of needle-like darts slammed into the brickwork inches from him, and he swung around the railing, taking what little cover he could find. Two shots and the sound of glass shattering told him Melisande was laying down cover again and he risked a look. She had ducked behind the rack they'd been shackled to, which didn't provide much cover but was all there was to chose from. She also seemed to be conserving her ammunition, which meant he had to hurry. The chimaeras didn't seem likely to give her a cease-fire to find a new supply and reload.

He heard a crackle and smelled ionization in the air and jumped, grabbing for the railing, just before the metal stairs snapped and sparked with what was probably a lethal charge. Ardsley pulled himself up, swinging over the rail before he found out if that was electrically rigged, too. That also saved him from the cluster bomb the chimaeras fired that exploded into tiny burr-like mini-bombs, obviously designed to snag on clothing before they, too, blew up. Dodging that saved him from being blowing to bits but it had been a distraction, and it was only a flicker in his peripheral vision that saved him. He rolled, the iron bar Vanya was swinging missing him by inches. As he came up to his feet he managed a quick look around the platform–large levers, obviously running valves that controlled the mix and flow of the ichor, an set of rotary valves that seemed to operate the sluice gates and the hydroelectric generators they ran. The dam itself was blocking the exit tunnel, slowing the water to a shallow trickle on the far side.

Vanya swung again, but this time Ardsley was ready, waiting til the last possible second and grabbing for one of the levers as he dodged and yanking. There was a loud clang and a roar of water as the uppermost of the sluice gates opened and a torrent of water poured through, slamming against the next set of gates. The change to the flow caused a metallic wail from the system as power level fluctuated.

"You fool! Are you trying to kill us all?" Vanya spun away, yanking at series of smaller switches.

"I think that's your job," Ardsley retorted. The ichor was churning in two enormous glass cylinders, and while shattering them would almost certainly shut the operation down he knew enough about Aldinic reactions to know dousing himself (and by necessity Vanya) in the substance would likely not end well. On the other hand, risk of death by electrocution aside, overloading the dam and causing a surge might short out Vanya's army and the controls. He spotted the heavy switches beneath a row of flow gauges and bolted for them.

A foot snapped out and caught him sideways in the leg, which still ached from the shock cuffs' torture. He tumbled sideways, grabbing for any support he could find–one of the levers on the ichor vats. The momentum yanked the lever all the way down and the fluid began to churn violently, the glass shaking with an ominously increasing vibration. He had only a moment to consider that this was probably not a good sign before he was being yanked violently around. Vanya's expression was eerily present for a Spark in the midst of madness and before Ardsley could really process that, he was reeling from a very un-Spark-like punch to the jaw.

"You are supposed," Vanya said, in icy tones that were much, much too sane for Ardsley's liking, "to be testing my clanks." He picked up the iron pipe he'd swung before and was holding it in a disturbingly confident manner. "It's so hard to find good minions these days." He raised the pipe.

A crackling explosion and a shower of glowing metal and glass shrapnel made both of them turn and stare.

Melisande had only a second to note that Ardsley had reacted the control platform before the chimaeras laid down a barrage of fire–in one case literally, as the blobs of gelatinous substance it fired ignited on impact. She squeezed off another shot but this one ricocheted off one of her target's metal joint and sparked harmlessly against the stone walls. At least it drew the attention of the second rank, that or they recognized Ardsley was too close to their master to fire on safely. Unfortunately she also couldn't get a clear shot at Vanya, either, but Ardsley ought to be able to hold his own.

Of course now she was facing all of them herself. The metal gantries weren't providing a lot of cover and several darts exploded far too close for comfort. A crash from the control deck forced her back on task–keep them occupied. Or better yet, shut as many down as she could. Eleven shots was not enough to accomplish that. She froze behind the minimal protection of the grating as the ruby-covered eye sockets swept over her hiding place.

And kept going.

Interesting.

She took a tentative step and had to dive for shelter again as the chimaeras swung back around, weapons coming to bear on her.

Motion-sensitive, the crystals in their eyes were motion sensors, but crude enough they needed actual motion to focus on. That explained their inability to aim even after acquiring a target. One of those little things, no doubt, that Vanya had wanted to fix after 'live testing.' With good reason–here was a weakness she could exploit, one potentially far more useful than the eleven rounds she still had in the pistol. Or was it ten?

She used another, shattering the red crystal on one of the second rank. It swung the chain-blade on its arm, smashing its compatriots to the left and right, which set off another random burst of explosions before the one shooting explosive darts happened to hit the glass tubing in the other two. All three went to pieces in the midst of a crackling, hissing wash of the ichor. Three more down, but twelve to go–with at most nine bullets.

She looked up at the glass pipes over the chimaeras' heads.

That had some interesting possibilities.

One of the blobs of flaming gel struck the grate above her and she had to dive forward, drawing a barrage from the other weapons. At least Vanya seemed to have thought simple machine pistols would have been too trite for a Spark's genius. Lucky for her as if he had gone the boringly conventional route she'd probably be dead already.

There was a junction of the pipes where they split off into smaller channels, presumably running to the different 'charging stations' in the side caverns. It was held together with brass collars and bolts and the ichor entered a brief pool in the elbow joint. The chimaeras were in their firing line beneath that junction.

Moving as slowly as she could, hoping not to draw their attention again, she aimed for the junction point. If she missed, she wasted at least one round and that was one less chance to take one of the chimaeras down. Then again, given how many there were, one bullet, more or less, wasn't going to help that much anyway. There was a crash from the platform and the thud of a body striking a hard surface, followed by a metallic roar. _Ardsley. You have to buy him time. _Taking a deep, steadying breath she sighted on her target and fired.

"No!"

Vanya's wail was somewhere between denial and rage. The rain of ichor, glass, and metal cascaded down on the chimaeras, who were stumbling in sudden shambles as the substance burned their metal parts and bones, and the collisions as they lost control of their reflexes shattered glass segments in their power systems. "What have you done? My clanks!"

Ardsley took a brief, precious second to look for Melisande and shout "Head for the ladder!" He saw her bolt from behind her cover and then he turned and lunged for the sluice-gate controls. The master valve was tight, but he wrenched it as hard as his aching muscles allowed and jammed it into the open position. Before Vanya could react he lunged from the control levers for the dam itself and threw it to what he hoped very much was the emergency shutoff position. Somewhere he heard turbines squealing as the gears attached locked up and a grimly final crash of the flow-through gates shutting. The water continued to rush through the wide-open gates, but now it was rising behind the blocked dam. There was a gap into the cavern beyond at the very top, but by the time the water reached that height the cavern they were in would be flooded higher than the platform.

"You–no! You've killed us all!" Vanya turned back from his now-floundering army and lunged for the controls. Ardsley punched hard for his solar plexus, sending the madboy reeling backwards. In the seconds that gave him, he scanned the control panels, looking for any sort of weapon. Their own guns were below, already swamped, and the best he could find here was a utility belt hanging off one of the support rails, with what looked like repair tools and emergency cave gear–it must have been Katia's, it was all too highly practical for a Spark. He grabbed for the only thing with a pistol grip, but found that wasn't a lethal weapon. Still might be worth keeping for later and he jammed it in his belt–

"Agh!" The enraged shout gave him enough warning and he kicked back blindly, connecting with Vanya's stomach and sending him staggering back. They always screamed, never thought about how much a split second could matter in combat.

Unfortunately what he'd failed to consider was that one thing Sparks were good at was improvised weapons. Vanya, protected by the heavy rubber lab gloves, grabbed one of the power cables running to the ichor tanks and yanked. Now he had a crackling, high-voltage weapon that made up for what it lacked in reach with one-touch kill potential. And of course, behind Ardsley was the railing of the command platform and a drop to the rapidly-rising flood below. All he had was a thoroughly nonlethal tool. From the gleam in Vanya's eyes he'd just made a similar assessment of the situation.

"Maybe we're all going to die down here," the madboy said, advancing a step. "So maybe it doesn't matter who goes first. But I think I'd die happier if it was you!"

He lunged–and slammed forward on his face mid-stride. Ardsley looked, and once again fought the inappropriate urge to laugh. Melisande was clinging to the edge of the gantry, the steep metal steps swaying violently as the water turned into a whirlpool as it rushed to fill the cavern. Rather, she was clinging with one hand, and with the other she'd grabbed Vanya's ankle and yanked hard, sending him down in a pratfall. The torn cable bounced away, spitting like an electrified snake.

Vanya kicked back, forcing Melisande to let go, but she pulled herself up and covered the few steps to Ardsley's side before he could do more to retaliate. "Shoot him?" She managed to sound so briskly professional, even soaking wet and shaking.

"Seems the thing to do, and I haven't got the gun." Ardsley looked around the gantry. "Though–is he the only one who knows the way out?"

Vanya was pulling himself to his feet by the railing. "The way out? You took care of that!" He pointed at the whirlpool and the flailing, dying chimaeras. "Unless you can fly."

"Have to admit, he has a point." Ardsley looked up. It was hard to see, but there was a shaft, probably for ventilation or a supply drop from when this was a quarry. It was also out of easy jumping or climbing range.

Vanya didn't seem reassured by being told he was right. "At least I get to see the two of you die with me! You've ruined everything, Melisande, you stupid little whore! You, and you–" and he jabbed an accusing finger at Ardsley. "So what will your British masters say when your body turns up in the sewers? How does it feel to know you'll go down as a miserable failure of a lackey? Couldn't stop a Spark without getting yourselves killed, could you? You might have destroyed my work but at least _I'll_ be remembered as a genius! When they find the remains of my army, I'll–ack!"

The claw-arm closed around Vanya's chest from behind, and his gasp became a scream as the leaking ichor from the dying chimaera started to eat into his clothes. "What–no! What are you doing?" The flailing clank's red-crystal eye was half-shattered, but it apparently had enough motion sensitivity left to be attracted by flailing madboy. "Stop this! Release me! I AM YOUR CREATOR AND YOU WILL OBEY–"

The railing gave way under the chimaera's weight and it, and Vanya, plunged into the rising flood below.

The gantry lurched and Ardsley grabbed the railing while Melisande grabbed him. In other circumstances he would have enjoyed that a lot more but now was not the moment. They weren't sliding towards the broken rail, though, and he had a chance to take a breath and look. There was a brief glimpse in the turbulent waters below of Vanya, still flailing wildly in the clank's grasp, and then another rush of water dragged them down and they were gone.

Ardsley turned away. "I think he was in over his head." Then he looked down at Melisande. "I gather you don't feel like dying down here, either?"

"If you have a way out, I'd love to hear it." She tucked the pistol into her waistband. "I think I have two shots left but I'd rather not use them on us."

"I don't think that will be necessary." He peered up into the shaft above. "Grab on."

She locked her arms around his waist, and blinked. "Why, Ardsley," and even now, she could make him melt with just her voice, "is that a grappling pistol in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

He grinned, and aimed the gun up the shaft. "Hold on tight." The water was starting lap over the edge of the gantry, washing dangerously close to the torn live wire. He was only going to get one chance at this . . . .

The pistol fired with a soft puff and the cable whirred, higher, higher–there was a hard, metallic thunk as somewhere up the shaft it latched onto a ledge. He flipped the switch to 'retract' and they were yanked clear of the platform seconds before the water struck the live wire and the entire gantry crackled with electricity. Then they were up the tunnel and the sound of rushing water faded into the distance as they slowed and finally reached the end of the shaft and the iron sewer grate that the hook had caught. Ardsley braced them both against the sides of the shaft while Melisande picked the latch, and they climbed into a Parisian alley that he didn't recognize, but which from the buildings and the scent of the river was somewhere closer to the Seine than where they'd started from. It was also dark, meaning they'd been unconscious and trapped for at the very least ten hours.

And it was Thursday night.

The exhaustion, the post-stun rush, the pain, the rapid-fire ups and downs, and that was the capper. He started laughing and simply couldn't stop. Melisande stared at him as if she weren't quite sure whether she needed the gun again. "What is it?"

"I was only thinking, it's Thursday night," he said, managing to stop himself long enough to speak, "I can definitely forget that library job now."

Melisande stared blankly for an instant, and then she laughed, too. "Oh, dear. I hope you weren't planning to use them as a reference. I suppose it's a good thing I didn't have any lectures today, either."

"Oh, that would have been bad." The shaking in his legs was under enough control he could go to her, and from the way she fell into his arms she wasn't that stable yet. Her laughter was quieting and she clung to him, her face pressed against his chest, and he could have stood there forever and never let her go.

_Why not? _He'd never find another girl like Melisande. He'd certainly never find another who would understand so completely why he did what he did, how important duty could be. She was beautiful and brave and scarily competent in the field, and he would never have to worry even when they were apart that if someone tried to get to him through her, she couldn't defend herself. She might worry about him, but she would understand what he did, that he was, in fact, capable of surviving his mission, and she would not hate him for the absences and the danger. They were two of a kind.

_Why not forever?_

"Come on," he said, kissing her forehead and taking her arm.

"Where are we going?" She was taking two steps to his one and he forced himself to slow down.

"The Consulate. It's late, but so much the better, no one will see us going in." He stopped at the end of the alley, trying to get his bearings. It might be faster to call a cab or a rickshaw, but then again they didn't have any money.

"You think we're still in danger?" Melisande looked up and down the street as well, obviously scanning for trouble. "From what?"

"No, that's not it." Ardsley realized he was not going about this in the best way. "The Consul General can perform weddings for British subjects abroad, so he can marry us tonight, and he can arrange travel papers for you-you'll have to swear allegiance to the Crown, of course, but you won't mind, will you? You'll have citizenship quicker as my wife–"

"What?" She stared at him, eyes wide in the golden light of the street lamps. "Your–Ardsley, what are you saying?"

"Oh, I'm not doing this well at all, am I?" He forced himself to take a deep breath. "I thought you were dead tonight. I can't lose you again. I can't spend who knows how long on this assignment wondering if you're safe, wondering where you are and who might have found you and hurt you or shipped you off to Siberia. Katia and Vanya are dead but I doubt your uncle is going to take the entire situation well at all. I have to know you're safe and the best way to do that is for you to be in England, and not as some refugee or hostage but as my wife." He paused. "I know it won't be the best marriage, not at first, but I promise, when this mission is over if I've succeeded I'll be able to ask for any position I want, and I'd try to see you whenever I could until then, and if something did happen to me the agency's benefits for widows and orphans are really quite generous . . . ." He was babbling, something he never did, and he forced himself to stop. "Melisande . . . marry me."

For one agonizing heartbeat, he thought she was going to say no. He started breathing again when she smiled, and softly whispered in English, "Yes."

The two Serpents patrolling the banks of the Seine in response to reports of earth tremors and intermittent gas cutoffs all afternoon saw the two young people embracing beneath a street light, clearly oblivious to anything in the world but each other. The two officers briefly considered stopping to question them, but then reconsidered and walked on, leaving the lovers their privacy. There was nothing really worthy of note about the scene. It was a warm, pleasant night with spring turning to summer, and this was, after all, Paris.


	10. Chapter 10

It took more string-pulling than he would have liked, including resorting to emergency codes that he did not think had been meant for situations like this, but the next morning, Ardsley found himself in a borrowed suit of clean clothes, standing beside Melisande (lovely in a cream-colored day dress the Consul General's wife had generously loaned) in the office of the British Consul General with the Consul's wife and private secretary looking on as they recited the words Ardsley had never anticipated saying to anyone. He was nervous enough he very nearly stumbled on his own name, and his fingers shook so much he nearly dropped the ring (as the Consul had insisted on at least waiting until a civilized hour of the morning, it had at least meant enough time to find an inexpensive silver band from the first jeweler's he could find. When he'd assured Melisande it was only until he could find something nicer, she'd given him a knowing look and he suspected that would be the ring she wore for the rest of their lives even if someday he could afford to give her diamonds.)

Melisande's voice was clear and confident on her marriage vows, but less so with the briefer, more somber ceremony that happened after they said "I do" and were pronounced man and wife. The Consul read the oath of allegiance in far more severe tones, and Ardsley could feel her tremble a little as she foreswore all oaths to any foreign powers and promised true fealty to her Undying Majesty Queen Albia. He pressed her hand tightly, and felt her steady herself. Her hand did not shake at all when she signed the papers the Consul presented to her, which would act as temporary proof of citizenship until she arrived in the Glass City and could gather the proper paperwork. She didn't have any of her birth records or identification from the Duchy, but then few defectors ever did.

The wedding breakfast was a brief affair, with a few tea sandwiches and a bottle of quite decent champagne–Ardsley suspected that Consul's wife was very much a romantic and was enjoying the drama of the whole business. By then it was after noon and given they'd been 'missing' nearly an entire day, he knew he at least had to go back to his 'normal' life. The sensible thing, of course, would be for Melisande to remain in the Consulate until she could leave for England, while he continued his cover and departed for Castle Wulfenbach.

He should have realized exactly how well Melisande would take the 'sensible' argument.

"Don't be ridiculous." There was a defiant tilt to her chin, and he had an uncomfortable reminder of how confidently she'd stared down Vanya even while the Spark was in the madness place. "I'm not staying cooped up here. For starters there's some chance I can get my things from Baba Anya, and I owe her some explanation. And anyway . . . ." Her eyes narrowed. "We have barely four days before you have to leave. That's hardly a honeymoon as it is and if you think I'm not spending any more of it than I have to away from you you're very much mistaken."

The Consul, who had been trying to look as if he weren't listening, chuckled. "Your lady wife has a point, Mr. Wooster. And considering the . . . haste to the wedding, I shouldn't think you're that eager to part?"

Despite the urge to blush at the implications, he couldn't argue with that logic. Nor with Melisande. And four days was hardly any time at all, he had to agree, scarcely enough for any sort of honeymoon, let alone a proper one.

"You'll need to hide your wedding ring," he said as they left the gates of the Consulate, after making sure the street was clear of any suspicious-looking characters. Ardsley carried their nearly-ruined clothes from the sewers in a (borrowed) train case that Melisande would return, along with the borrowed clothing they were wearing, when she went back to leave for England. "At least as long as we're in Paris. Much as I'd like to tell everyone I know–actually people I don't know, even, if G–the Baron's people find out, that won't help my cover. They prefer their lab assistants not have any dependents."

"That isn't very reassuring." Melisande kept her expression pleasantly vague just as he did, in case they were being watched, but he heard the waver in her voice. "In any case, I already thought of that." Her hand went to her collar and the glass locked on its velvet cord. When she shook it, he could just barely hear the rattle of something inside. "I have a place for my little secrets now, remember?"

"I had hoped maybe you'd use it for a picture," he teased, "but that certainly works, as well. Unless you think you'll forget what I look like?"

"Not if I was struck blind this instant." She leaned a bit more on his arm. "But I think I'll want one anyway before you leave. I'll want to wear my ring after that." Ardsley tightened his hold on her arm and didn't reply. The thought of how soon that would be was far too depressing to contemplate when they had so little time for better things.

The steps up to his flat were disconcertingly familiar–after so much had happened in barely a day, he felt as if there ought to be some sort of physical evidence of the changes. He'd nearly died, Melisande had nearly died, they had taken on an army of chimaera-clanks single-handed, and he certainly hadn't expected to be returning to his rooms a married man. "I'd offer to carry you across the threshold," he said as they reached the landing, "but that would make disarming the tripwire difficult."

Then he looked for the thread on the hinges, and realized someone already had.

Behind him Melisande had already drawn the little pistol and moved back against the wall. Ardsley pressed against the door, turning the handle slowly with his left hand until he was certain the inner trap had also been disabled. Looking over his shoulder, he held out his right for the gun, wishing the rest of their weapons weren't sunken somewhere in the Paris sewers. Melisande raised an eyebrow. "Didn't those vows have something about love, honor and obey?" he whispered.

"I had my fingers crossed on that last one." But she turned the gun and handed it over, hilt first, then reached up and drew out a few of her hairpins–not as sharp as a hatpin, but folded between her knuckles they'd at least give her a little more than raw strength. Telling her to run back down the stairs in the event of an ambush was probably futile, so any advantage, he supposed, was a good one. "Remember, there's only two rounds left."

"If I have to I'll make them count." Bracing himself, he pushed open the door hard enough to hit anyone hiding behind it, and leapt through. Melisande followed a half-second behind, barely stopping in time to avoid knocking him down where he'd frozen, the pistol aimed, staring in utter disbelief at the person sitting in his desk chair, sipping calmly from the good teacup.

"Well, there you are, Ardsley." The tall, elegantly-dressed gentleman had silver hair, a crisp public-school accent, and probably more reason to be annoyed with Ardsley than anyone else except possibly Melisande's uncle at this point. "And you must be Mademoiselle La Capere–or should I say Velyaminova?" He rose, which only added to the authoritative air of his very presence.

"Lord M_!" It took a moment for Ardsley's voice to work again. "What–how–should you even be here? You're putting my cover at risk! What if G–one of Wulfenbach's people see you?"

"I am hardly the only one taking chances in that respect, my boy." The head of British Intelligence was still looking over Ardsley's shoulder. "After your last communique, I decided it had been far too long since I'd seen Paris, and if I could provide you with some personal advice regarding the Duchy's lovely agents and their usual bag of tricks along the way, well, what is an old friend of your aunt's for? Imagine my surprise when I arrived yesterday and couldn't find hide nor hair of you. But I'm being quite rude. Would you introduce me to your lady friend?"

Ardsley glanced back at Melisande. She was doing an excellent job maintaining her composure, but he saw the uneasy look in her eyes. "Yes," he said, reaching back and swinging the door closed, "I think perhaps I'd better." He set the gun down on the bed. "Lord M_, allow me to present my wife, Melisande Wooster. Melisande, my darling, this is Lord M_. I'd introduce you more properly but I doubt anyone besides her Majesty knows his real name anymore."

"Your _what?_"

It was perversely pleasing to see that something, anything, could crack that implacable aura of authority Lord M_ always projected. A bit disconcerting to be on the receiving end, true, but at least it was nice to know he could still be surprised by something. "My wife," Ardsley repeated.

Melisande, for her part, made a polite curtsey. "I'm honored, Lord M_. We have of course heard a great deal about you in the Duchy. My Uncle Oleg is an admirer. A grudging admirer," she amended, "but an admirer."

"Thank you, Mademoi–Madame," and it was a good sign he corrected himself. "Forgive me for my rudeness, but–Ardsely, what the devil is the meaning of this? How on earth do you interpret 'limit contact' as 'make an honest woman of her?' Forgive me, Mrs. Wooster," and Melisande shrugged off the implied insult. Ardsley received no such apology. "Have you lost your mind? What have you done?"

"Last question first," and it was oddly exhilarating to stand up to Lord M_, "we were married at the Consulate this morning. I apologize for the lack of an invitation but it was a very small affair. Second last question, no, as far as I know, I'm still quite sane. Third, this has nothing to do with my orders, hers, or either of our agencies. And the meaning of this is . . . ." He took Melisande's hand. "I love her. She loves me. And the only way I can be sure she's safe is if she's in England and protected as a subject and citizen, not held as a hostage or watched as a spy."

"Oh, really? Well, meaning no offense, but what else do you think she is?" Lord M_ looked more frazzled than was probably healthy for someone Ardsley had never even heard raise his voice before. "She's a spy, given who her family is she was born a spy, and seducing you into taking her to England was likely her entire purpose in being in Paris! And now you've handed her the key! They train their female agents precisely for this sort of thing, and the only reason they haven't been more successful is _our_ agents are usually smart enough not to fall for it."

"With respect, my Lord," and Melisande certainly knew the right tone to take with an irate aristocrat, "I very much doubt, after the events of the last twenty-four hours, that my uncle will be concerned with me beyond trying to have me killed or arrested or both, possibly in that order. In fact I suspect he'll order me killed, just so it's easier to bring me home so he can have me brought back and kill me again himself."

Ardsley grimaced. "Which is why you are going to be safely on your way to England before I leave Paris." He looked back at Lord M_. "Her transit papers and request for residency are in order, and considering she's my wife, I'm sure that you and my aunt can expedite matters with immigration."

"We'll see what I'm expediting," Lord M_ said, but he at least sat back down. "First, let's hear exactly what it is you've been doing for the last day that would have Oleg Feyodorovich angry enough to kill his own niece?"

"Yes," said a voice from the door, "I would be very much interested in hearing that myself."

Ardsley turned, and Melisande was already facing the intruder, her fists clenched around the improvised weapons but her posture telling him she was too startled to really be ready to attack. And he could see why. "Countess Dragomirov."

"Mr. Wooster." How someone so short and soft and just so unassuming could sound quite so icy was a mystery he hoped never to solve. Her emerald-chip eyes fixed on her goddaughter. "Melisande Petrovna, I assume you have some explanation for where you have been, and I hope that includes where your cousin and Ivan Sergeivich are."

Before Melisande could reply, from behind them, a voice said, hesitantly, "Anya Leonova?" Lord M_ looked as if he'd seen a ghost, but not a frightening one.

Ardsley felt as if he were watching a tennis match as he and Melisande turned from Lord M_ back to the Countess, who looked just as bemused by the situation as her British counterpart appeared to be. "Bernard? Is that really you?" She was fingering the black brooch she wore as she asked.

"Bernard?" It came out in a chorus as he and Melisande turned back again to stare at Lord M_.

"If either of you breathes a word of that to anyone, I'll have you both killed." The matter of his name appeared secondary despite the threat. "Yes, it's me, Anya. A bit older and grayer for wear, I'm afraid, while you've obviously not aged a day."

"Flatterer." But there was a decidedly youthful flush to her cheeks. "And you might say you are more distinguished, not old. But surely, you are not taking up field work again?"

"Perish the thought," Lord M_ replied. "No, I am merely looking out for the nephew of an old friend, who seems to have been lead astray quite thoroughly. Though I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose. You appear to have taught your goddaughter well."

"Oh!" Melisande was pressing a hand to her mouth, though out of surprise or to suppress a laugh, Ardsley wasn't sure. "Oh, Baba Anya . . . now I understand. All those stories and sly remarks about British agents and how well they're trained . . . tell me, Lord M_," and she turned back to him, "were you by any chance, as a young agent, stationed in Vienna?"

Ardsley had the rare, distinct pleasure of seeing his superior blush a very unseemly bright red. "I confess, when I was not much older than Ardsley here, I was sent on my first foreign assignment to our station in Vienna, yes."

"And such a charming young agent he was." It was very easy to see the beautiful young woman the Countess must have been in how she smiled now. "I often think on those days."

"Fondly, I hope." Lord M_, sentimental? It was not to be thought of, yet here it was. "I see you still wear my gift?"

"This?" The Countess touched the bauble (Ardsley now recognized it as the sort of finely-carved but inexpensive kind of black rock so popular as keepsakes from the coasts of the Yorkshire Isles) . "Often."

"Every day," Melisande said, and there was no disguising the giggle this time. Though Ardsley noticed as she spoke she was absently caressing the glass locket, and he couldn't help smiling.

"Truly?" Lord M_ looked almost boyishly pleased. Then he sighed and looked at Ardsley and Melisande, the professional disapproval returning even if some of the ire had gone. "I assume you heard at the door what they've done?"

"Aided and abetted by your Consul General, I gather." The Countess switched back to the air of a professional spymistress just as easily. "And that is a serious matter, but there is another issue of which I must speak. Melisande Petrovna, I wonder if you can tell me what has become of your cousin, and of Ivan Sergei'ch? When we discovered your room empty yesterday morning, Ekaterina Olegevna assured me they would find you, not that I had much doubt where you were. And none of you seen since. Do you know where they are?"

Giggling goddaughter and serene bride both melted away and Melisande fixed her godmother with a direct, cool, gaze. "Both dead. My suspicions about Vanya were correct: he was building himself a small army of clanks, rather ingenious ones, actually, though if there are any parts left it'll be the Master of Paris who has the advantage of them now, I suppose. Katia was helping him, as far as she could. Ardsley and I had both found separate pieces of the puzzle, though we'd neither of us figured out what exactly Vanya was building, and Katia decided that was cause enough to get us both out of the way. They drugged us, and took us down to his lab. Katia . . . rather unwisely decided on a very rash method of interrogating me. Your pardon, Lord M_," and she undid a single button of her blouse, showing the dark bruising where the stun pellet struck at close range. "I shot her, and I make no apologies. I'm only alive because she wasn't as clever as she thought she was. As for Vanya . . . ."

Ardsley heard the slight tremor starting in her voice, and pressed her hand. "He suffered the same fate as most Sparks," he said. "His own creations turned on him. We were lucky to escape with our lives."

"And you thought the best way to celebrate your good fortune was with a wedding." But the Countess looked from her goddaughter to Ardsley and finally to Lord M_. "Your operation?"

"None of ours. Ardsley has another mission, one that is not being helped at all by your . . . complication here." He gestured to Melisande. "Really, Anya, you had to set her on him? There wasn't any of our other agents who would have served?"

"How was I to know how they'd do something so extreme?" The Countess put her hands on her hips, and Ardsley had to fight the urge not to laugh. He'd never seen anyone actually stamp their foot at Lord M_, at least not and get away with it. "She had her instructions—"

"I'm sure she did," Lord M_ retorted. "But that's as may be. Ardsley has a very important task at hand, one we cannot afford to have fail. I'm afraid his having a _wife_ simply does not factor into our plans."

"Just a moment, sir," Ardsley interjected. "I have no intention of abandoning the . . . matter to which you're referring. But . . . well, if you'd been there last night, if you knew how close we came . . . I can't leave Melisande alone and unprotected, I won' t have her used as anyone's hostage. I won't be able to concentrate if I'm wondering whether something's happened to her. "

"It's true," Melisande said, "I'll be much safer in England than in Paris, and I certainly can't go back to the Duchy, not now. And while it won't stop me worrying about him, if he knows I'm safe, Ardsley will have a much easier time keeping his wits about him, not to mention it's always motivating to have someone to come home to, don't you think?" Whether the adoring look she gave him was a put-on for Lord M_ and the Countess's benefit or not, it did leave him with a pleasant, warm glow.

Lord M_ didn't look quite as convinced. "I see you two have your story straight, at any rate."

"Now, Bernard," and the Countess sounded more thoughtful than calculating, "they do seem to have though more about this than it first appears. And Melisande is quite correct, I do not believe it would be wise for her to return to the Duchy, if what she says about Katia and Vanya is true."

"I assure you, madame—"

"Yes, yes," she cut Ardsley off with a wave. "I'm sure it happened as my goddaughter says. To be honest I am not surprised, as Melisande and Katia have never gotten along, as I'm sure she told you. Still, Oleg Feyodorovich will not be pleased, and to lose a Spark, even by his own actions, well, it's always difficult. And, of course, there is the matter of your cousin Alexei, Melichka. He will not be pleased, either."

"I don't see why he'd be angry," Melisande said. "Alexei Nicolaiovich has always liked me since we were children, and he was never especially fond of Katia. I think she was too determined to marry him."

"I don't mean about that, or even your defection," the Countess said. "But you have married without his consent, and to a commoner, at that. And not, I gather, for mission purposes, but sincerely?"

"Very sincerely." It was almost the same tone she'd used telling Vanya to shut the power off to Ardsley's bindings the night before. "Still, I hadn't thought of that." She brightened. "Ardsley's aunt is a Spark, though, so there's some chance we might have a son who is, too. Cousin Alexei won't mind that. He thinks there aren't enough in the family besides him."

Ardsley himself was lost. "Cousin Alexei?"

To his surprise, it was Lord M_ who replied. "Her cousin, boy. Alexei Nicolaiovich, Grand Duke of Moscow? Surely you bothered to find out a bit about the Velyaminovs once you knew she was one."

"Your cousin . . . the Grand Duke?" It was not unlike how he suspected many people were going to feel when Gil Holzfäller finally announced his true identity to the world.

"Second cousin." Melisande had the grace to look embarrassed. "It isn't such an important thing–there are plenty of people ahead of me in line and Alexei isn't even married yet. I have no title of my own unless he decided to grant me one, and think that's done for now. It doesn't really matter whom I marry, only he's not going to be happy I didn't ask him first. At least, not now that I mean it."

"Are there any other surprises I need to know about?"

"Oh, I can think of a few," Melisande said, and leaned in to whisper, "but not for mixed company."

Ardsley was suddenly, painfully aware of how little time just under four days was.

"All things considered, England might not be such a bad place for her, at least for now," the Countess continued.

"For always," Melisande said. "After all, my husband is English," and she clearly relished the word 'husband' as much as he was enjoying 'wife.' "And in any case, I've sworn an oath to her Majesty that I'll be a good and loyal subject. I understand they take that sort of thing quite seriously."

The Countess stared at her for a long moment. "Yes. Yes, they do. Which is why it is usually advised one visit before one makes such promises."

Melisande looked up at Ardsley, and he saw the same smile she had given him in the lamplight, when she had said 'yes.' "I made my decision already."

"So I see." There was a sad edge to the Countess's smile. "I suppose the real question is, what will I tell your parents?"

"That I love them, and I will miss them, and I hope someday they can meet my husband." Melisande's voice wavered just a little, and Ardsley tightened his hold on her hand again.

"I will tell them that." She looked past them both. "Bernard, I think, perhaps, we've taken up enough of the young people's time."

Lord M_ looked like he was seriously considering protesting. Instead, he sighed. "Three days, Ardsley. You know what you have to do."

"I know." He looked from Melisande, back to Lord M_. "When were you planning to return home?"

"I hadn't quite decided–ah, I see." He sighed. "If you would like, I would be happy to chaperone Mrs. Wooster on her journey to England. For your peace of mind, since you will be needing that, and as a favor to her godmother."

"Thank you, Lord M_," Melisande said. "I was not looking forward to going to a strange land alone."

"It will be my pleasure. The transition can be quite a shock for the surface-born." There was a steely, professional glint in his eye.

"I'm sure your presence will be very reassuring."

"Bernard," and the Countess's voice was a little firmer.

"Yes, Anya." Lord M_ did not sound nearly as intimidating when he took that tone. "Perhaps we could take a walk, for old times' sake?"

"Yes." That smile was decades younger than she was. "We can commiserate on our terrible luck. What were the odds our proteges would be the exception?"

Despite his having no desire to slow their departure, Ardsley couldn't help it. "Exception to what?" Plus, it was rather flattering to hear himself described as Lord M_'s protégé.

Lord M_ chuckled, such an alien sound it was unnerving. "You think you are the first of our agents to be targeted for a seduce-and-coopt mission, boy? Our agencies have a long and storied history of them–the Duchy's operatives attempt to turn our agents, we try to turn theirs right back. It's been going on as long as we've had espionage, I suppose."

"In approximately ninety percent of the operations, the agents in question might have an affair, pleasant or otherwise, and in the end call it a draw," and from the look the Countess gave Lord M_, Ardsley could guess their own prior acquaintance had fallen into that category. "In perhaps nine percent of cases, the situation ends . . . badly."

"And the remaining one percent?" Melisande asked, but he suspected that, like him, she had already guessed.

The Countess laughed softly. "What else?" She looked to Lord M_. "I believe in this case, the win goes in your column. Without his even really trying, to boot. My goddaughter's assessment of you seems to have been correct, Mr. Wooster. You are quite good."

"Thank you, Countess." Though he wasn't sure he really deserved the compliment. Not professionally, at any rate.

Lord M_ started for the door, and paused at Ardsley's shoulder. "Remember, not a word of this to anyone outside this room. Once you're safely aboard Castle Wulfenbach, no one knows she exists."

Ardsley nodded, then blinked. There was a weight in his coat pocket that not been there a moment ago. He reached into it, and touched a billfold. A thick one.

Lord M_gave him a knowing smile. "For heaven's sake, boy, you're in Paris. Don't spend your wedding night in a student's garret. If . . . your friend notices and asks, tell him your aunt sent you a gift in honor of your new position."

"I'll do that." He fingered the money–there was more there than he'd had to spend at one time since he's come to Paris. "I suppose this will be coming out of my expense report?"

"Let's call it a loan." Lord M_ offered the Countess his arm. "Shall we go, Anya?"

"Yes, Bernard." But the Countess was looking at her goddaughter. "If you need me, Melichka, you know how to contact me."

"I do. Goodbye, Baba Anya." Her voice wavered, but the grip of her hand in Ardsley's was steady.

"Goodbye, my dear." The Countess looked up at Lord M_. "Tell me, do you still appreciate fine Russian tea?" As they went out the door, Ardsley could hear his director (_Bernard!_) answering in the affirmative.

He waited until the sound of footsteps on the stairs had vanished before turning to Melisande. "Well."

"Well indeed." She looked as bemused–and amused–as he did. "Bernard?"

"Careful. I think he meant it about killing us if we tell anyone." He shook his head, taking out the billfold. "Perhaps that's what this is about. A bribe to keep quiet."

"That or he doesn't think much of your taste in interior decoration." She looked around with a critical eye. "I do hope they have nicer quarters for lab assistants aboard Castle Wulfenbach."

"I have almost four days until I have to worry about that," Ardsley said. "But for once, I have free time in Paris, and the money to do something about it. What would you like to do, my lady?" And he gave her a courtly bow.

Melisande laughed. "Oh, I'm sure we'll think of something. But just this instant, husband, I have a few things I'd like to do right here."

"Really. Why, Mrs. Wooster," and he put his arms around her and pulled her close, "would these involve any shocking liberties?"

"Oh, I certainly hope so." But this time, instead of waiting, she drew his mouth down to hers, and Ardsley suspected that while the liberties might be easier, if he wanted to be shocking, he was going to have to try harder this time.

The next three days passed in a blissful haze. The billfold (which was very generously filled indeed) paid for a room at a not-too-ostentatious inn for two nights, meals at restaurants, and even a night at the Opera (which was happily free of falling chandeliers and abducted ingenues, at least this week.) It also helped fund an evening at la Moulin with Gil and his latest pretty paramour, this one a blonde chorus girl with just enough intelligence to know when she and Gil were clearly not wanted and not quite enough to realize what that meant she should do. Gil, at least, had the presence of mind to realize a man with a lovely lady friend and only a few more nights in Paris did not want to stay out too late, no matter how enjoyable the company.

Which was a good thing, because if they had stayed out much later that evening, Melisande might have resorted to violence.

The last morning came far too soon as it was. They'd returned to Ardsley's flat that evening, as he had to pack what few belongings he had that were worth taking, and, she had to admit, for sentiment. This was the closest thing to a home they had.

She slept longer than she'd meant to, and woke alone in the bed. A quiet rustling and the clicking of a trunk latch told her before she opened her eyes where Ardsley was, and she sat up. "It can't be time already?"

"Soon." He was looking into the cloudy old mirror above the desk, adjusting the stiff collar of his best shirt. "I wish I didn't have to go, love."

"Maybe." She slid out of bed, shivering. The stove wasn't lit, but then today they weren't staying long. "But you're excited too, aren't you?"

He paused, and turned guiltily to her. "You're not angry?"

"If anything, I'm a little jealous." She took over the business of straightening his collar, and then picked up the pin he'd been sent and told to wear. The little gold winged castle was heavier than it looked. "I'll be sitting quietly at home, knitting and having tea and trying not to think about all the horrible things that could be happening to you, while you'll be on a mission, spying on the Baron–"

"Not the Baron himself." There was still something he wasn't saying, something he kept holding back, but she didn't dare pry. "And I'd happily trade that sort of excitement a quiet evening at home with you."

"So you say," she teased, but her throat was oddly tight. Slipping the pin through the stiff ends of the collar, she fastened it and stepped back. "There. The perfect Wulfenbach lackey."

He peered at himself in the mirror. "You think so?"

"Hm." She studied the rust-colored great coat with its brass fittings, the ridiculously-overbuttoned waistcoat (she hoped the laundry on the Castle wasn't done by hand), and heavy-weave brown trousers. "I don't think the color suits you."

"I'll be sure to bring that up at my first supervisor's review." He sighed, and looked down at his watch. "It's nearly time, if I want to make my flight in Marseilles. You can stay here for a bit, if you like–"

"No." She went to the clothes she'd laid out atop her own case, the only thing she'd be taking to the Consulate, and dressed as slowly as she dared. Ardsley helped with the lacings of her corset, the buttons on her blouse, and interrupted with kisses wherever he could reach until they were both fully clothed and facing and he was kissing her so deeply she couldn't breathe, but didn't care.

Ardsley finally broke the kiss, but not the embrace, pulling her as close as he could. She knew without asking it was time, and as such, what else was there to say?

He kissed the top of her head, pressed his face into her hair. "I love you."

Melisande leaned back, looking him in the eye. "Come back to me."

He didn't speak, only nodded, and stroked her cheek, his fingers tracing over her face as if memorizing it. Melisande made herself step away first, or she was not going to let him go.

"I'll leave. I shouldn't be seen with you now. Besides, I don't want to watch you go." She went to the little case and picked it up, gripping the handle until her knuckles turned white to keep from trembling. "Ardsley . . . ."

"I know." His voice caught. "I'll come home to you. I promise."

"I'll be waiting for you. _I_ promise." Then before she could lose her nerve and her dignity and beg him one last time to stay, she opened the door and went out. She managed not to look back until she was on the street, when she couldn't help but look for the garret window. Ardsley was watching, and she paused for a moment, her whole body fighting to run back inside, and then she steeled herself and walked on. The Consulate, Lord M_, and England awaited.

*** Six months later

"Herr Wooster."

Ardsley carefully set down the rack of test tubes he was carrying before turning around. "Yes, Herr Dolokov?"

Boris Dolokov, the Baron's amanuensis, assistant, and eyes and ears among the Castle staff, stood at the entrance to the lab with a folded sheet of paper in one hand, his ubiquitous notebook in another, and a pencil in a third, leaving only one of his extraneous pair of hands free to beckon Ardsley over. "You are being reassigned to a special project. If you'll come with me now, please." The 'please' was clearly an afterthought.

Ardsley kept his features neutral, though one small part of him wondered if this was it and his cover was broken. Another part wondered if this was it, and the payoff, after months, had finally arrived. "Of course, Herr Dolokov. If you'll give me a moment to stow–"

"Now, Herr Wooster." The former possibility seemed suddenly more likely. Then again, it wasn't as if Dolokov was especially patient or civil on a good day.

"Certainly, if it's that urgent." He was careful to keep a half-pace behind Dolokov, who was also very conscious of rank among the staff. It did make passing through the crowded central corridor much quicker, as everyone knew to make way for the Baron's right-hands man. They were headed towards one of the large mechanical labs, a reassuring sign, as if he were being arrested there were places for that, and they were in another direction. Plus, if he were being taken into custody Dolokov would probably have brought some sort of backup, Jaegers, even. So there was a definite possibility this was it, this was what he'd been waiting for . . . .

Dolokov rapped twice on the huge metal door, before spinning the locking wheel and pushing it open. "Ardsley Wooster, as you requested, Master Gilgamesh."

"Good!" said a familiar voice, only . . . more confident, easy in command. "Thank you, Boris, you can go back to my father now. We'll be fine." There was a clatter as someone dropped from the framework of what looked like a hoomhoffer in a significant state of disassembly.

"As you say, sir." From the look on his face, Dolokov was none too sure about that, but he withdrew and shut the heavy door behind him.

"Well, Wooster!" Gil even walked with a stronger step than he had in Paris. "I wish you could see the look on your face."

"Gil . . . what is going on? Herr Dolokov said I'd been requested for a special duty . . . ." Confused, he had to look confused.

"You have, old chap, as they say in your language." Gil crossed his arms, and even his grin was somehow more authoritative than it had been. "My father thinks I need an assistant–not just a lab assistant, but a . . . well, a valet, a secretary, a jack-of-all-trades . . . a gentleman's gentleman. And since I know you aren't completely useless in a lab, even for a non-Gifted, and you always managed to get me home when you thought I'd end up in a gutter otherwise, I thought, who better than my old friend, Ardsley Wooster?"

"Your father?" Careful, Ardsley, careful . . . .

"Oh, didn't I mention?" Obviously, he very deliberately hadn't. "My real name is Gilgamesh Wulfenbach. I'm sure you've heard of my father, Klaus? Famous Spark, bad temper, even worse singer but don't mention I said that."

Ardsley had been waiting for this for so long, now that it had finally happened he found he didn't have to feign surprise and disbelief. It felt that unreal. "Gil, that's hardly something to joke about, especially around here." Gil just kept smirking. "You mean . . . you're really . . . Baron Wulfenbach is your . . . ."

"I know. You wouldn't think it from the resemblance, but I promise, I'm truly the son of Baron Wulfenbach. And I'm truly offering you a job as my assistant. So what do you say?"

Ardsley took just a moment to look gobsmacked, and then said, "What would you like me to do first, sir?"

Gil clapped his hands together. "Good! I like an assistant who's ready to work. And you can start by helping me take apart this hoom. It was damaged during the assault on the Gilded Duke's fortress and they were just going to scrap it, but I think there's great room for improvement."

A small waist-high blur of brown and blue sped past, and the . . . whatever-it-was tugged at Gil's sleeve with a claw where a hand usually was. Ardsley tried to get a better look, but the claw and a single blinking eye were all that was visible under an oversize greatcoat and hat. That, and the antennae peeking out above. "Yes, Zoing, what is it?" The creature pointed the claw in Ardsley's direction. "Oh, yes. Zoing, this is Ardsley Wooster. He's going to be working for me from now on."

The single eye blinked balefully at Wooster, and the construct made a sound rather like "Hemekkatee?"

"No, making tea is still your job. In fact, why don't you go get us some while we get back to the hoom?" The creature scuttled off. "My first construct," Gil said, picking up a tool belt and tossing it to Ardsley. "I made him when I was eight."

"Eight?" _That _he hadn't known. "That's exceptional. Sir." He was going to have to get used to adding that.

"So they tell me." Some things never changed. "Zoing is very useful, but I should warn you, he's very territorial about tea. Funny, I didn't even use any English parts that I know of."

"Maybe he's Russian." That slipped out. That, he hadn't meant to say. _No, no, no, don't think about her now, and for God's sake don't remind Gil–_

"Russian? Oh, yes, that's right, I seem to recall a certain Russian girl that had you absolutely fascinated by how she took her tea." Gil jumped up onto the leg of the hoom. "In fact I seem to recall you spent your last few days in Paris having an awful lot of talks about tea with her. Whatever happened with–what's her name?"

"Melisande." He was an even better actor than he thought. His voice didn't waver at all. "She wasn't entirely pleased with my choice of employment." That had the benefit of being absolutely true.

"Oh. Well, lots of fish in the sea, and girls in Wulfenbach territory. Not that you're going to have much time for that now! Toss me a right-leaning 7/16 spanner, would you?"

"Certainly, sir." Plenty of fish in the sea, yes . . . but only one Melisande.

"Lord M_ to see you, Madame."

Melisande set down the book she'd been reading. Russian poetry might be beautiful, but it did not do much in the way of lifting one's mood. Of course it was that or more knitting and she had stopped that this morning when she'd realized she'd knitted a lovely soft set of shackles. "Please show him in, Hudson. And have tea for two sent in as well."

"Certainly, ma'am."

He really didn't have to make that sound quite so insulting. Of course, as butlers went, Hudson wasn't precisely the most professional in the world. One of Lord M_'s, or at least a retiree, and while her aunt-in-law didn't mind, Melisande had the distinct feeling she'd been watched since the moment she arrived. Of course, that was only sensible, all things considered.

"Lord M_, so nice to see you." She rose, with a minimum of wobbling, and privately congratulated herself. "Please, do sit down."

'Thank you, Mrs. Wooster." He looked far too relaxed to be bringing bad news, she told herself. Whatever he might think of her, and she still wasn't entirely sure about that, he genuinely cared about his operatives and would never look forward to reporting one's demise. "You're at home alone today?"

"Yes, Aunt Delilah is out paying calls. Or so she says. I think she has some private project she's working on." She eased herself carefully back into her chair. Oh, and this was only going to get worse before it got better.

"Even a retired Spark is still a Spark," Lord M_ observed. "The ones that do retire. You have, of course, met her friend Miss Thorpe?"

"Yes." There wasn't much else one could say, as one did not so much meet Trelawney Thorpe, Spark of the Realm and heroine of nearly as many adventures as the legendary Heterodyne Boys, as encounter her and be overwhelmed. "In any case, I think Aunt Delilah doesn't want to upset me."

Lord M_ did an excellent job not looking at the obvious. "A sensible precaution."

"Sensible, except I confess I could do with some upsetting. Or disturbing. Or anything to take my mind off sitting here and finding new ways to keep my mind occupied." Hudson arrived with the tea tray, and Melisande watched for any sign of recognition between the two men. If there was one, she missed it, but all things considered she could believe she was getting rusty. "Cream and sugar, Lord M_?"

"Please." He took the cup, and waited politely as she served herself the same. "Actually, it's about your occupation, or lack thereof, that I wanted to speak. Tell me, Mrs. Wooster, have you met the Duke of Devonshire?"

"Not that I recall, but then I haven't been out and about much of late." She took a sip of tea. "Should I have?"

"That remains to be seen." He produced a thick envelope from his inside breast pocket. "Now, I realize, you might not be in the most . . . fit condition for any sort of field work, but this would be of the most delicate nature, so any, ah, exertions, would almost certainly be kept to a minimum. Strictly reconnaissance and investigative work, so any, um, indisposition on your part wouldn't interfere too much–"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Lord M_, we're professionals. We can stop ignoring the elephant in the room. Although I don't think I'm that size yet." She rested her hand briefly on the curve of her abdomen below the loose maternity corset she'd only recently had to adopt for daily wear. "As long as whatever you have in mind doesn't involve repelling out of airships or deep-sea diving, I'm not so far along I won't be able to function."

He coughed, as that was a bit more than any gentleman really wanted to hear on the subject. "Yes, well, if you're certain . . . Ardsley would never forgive me if I allowed you to put yourself in danger, especially considering your condition." He handed her the envelope. "The Duke holds a very important and very sensitive ministerial post in Her Majesty's government. He recently acquired a fiancé, Miss Dorothy Tumbridge-Glossop. A lovely young lady, except for the fact that as far as we can determine, she doesn't, precisely, exist."

"I beg your pardon?" Melisande set down her teacup. "I take it you mean that more literally than her cover story doesn't check."

"That would presume she had a cover story, or indeed, any history at all." Lord M_ was smiling. "She's come to the capital for the season and to be presented to Her Majesty before the wedding. I could arrange an introduction." Melisande was so busy trying not to tear into the dossier and completely ignore her guest, she could only nod, and take another sip of the sweet, milky tea. Lord M_ raised an eyebrow. "I see Ardsley did manage to convert you to our tastes."

"Hm? Ardsley? Well, I suppose you could say he's responsible." Melisande wrinkled her nose. "Indirectly. It appears that even before birth, an Englishman's tea is sacrosanct." She set the cup aside. "Now, if you don't mind, why don't you tell me a little more about my assignment?"

Fin

Ardsley Wooster, British Intelligence, will return...


End file.
